TOW the understudy
by AEM77
Summary: There's always someone in the wings waiting to take your place.
1. Friday, June 19th

_Monica shivers slightly as a fat wet droplet of sweat moves serpentine along her collarbone and between her breasts, finally disappearing into the fabric of her already moist bra. Of course her high school would have their Field Day on the hottest day of the year, she thinks miserably, staring up at the unrelenting sun looming impossibly large and orange above the football field._

 _She glances over at the group of cheerleaders who are standing a few feet away from where she sits on the bleachers. Rachel is among them and she takes advantage of their preoccupation with the boys on the football team to stare openly at her oldest friend. Rachel's skin is tan and toned, a marked contrast to her own pale, almost translucent, complexion. Girls like Rachel were made for hot summer days like this, she thinks ruefully. Whereas sweat has been dripping from Monica's hairline almost nearly as soon as she'd stepped out into the oppressive humidity of the unseasonably warm June day, it seems to shimmer on Rachel's bronze skin, her honey streaked hair blowing in the wind as Monica's own raven locks stick messily to her neck and face_.

 _"_ _Places, ladies!" Ms. Thompson, their physical education teacher barks out and Monica rises from her seat grimacing slightly as her skin scrapes against the scalding metal riser. Her thighs chafe painfully against one another, sticky from sweat, and too large to be entirely contained by her regulation gym shorts. She remembers with embarrassment the first day of class when Ms. Thompson had supplied her with a boy's uniform, none of the girl's sizes quite adequate for her large frame._

 _Tugging slightly at the ill-fitting top, much too tight around her chest but overly baggy at her waist, she trudges to the lane of the track Ms. Thompson indicates and concentrates on moving her body into position. The other girls she notices are still chatting and have yet to crouch down at the starting line more interested in socializing than the race. But Monica is having none of it. Her hair may be matted, her skin may be sun burnt, and her body may be fat, but she has something her thin beautiful peers will never have: sheer force of will._

 _As the starting pistol shatters the relative quiet of the afternoon, her classmates step across their starting lines and begin running along the track, lazily jogging with a hair flip and a grin for the boys on the sidelines. But not Monica. Though her weight delays her a bit at the start, she lowers her head and concentrates all her energy on propelling her large body forward. As she gains speed she feels herself changing, the wind rushing past her, lifting the heat from her sweat soaked body and her insecurities and doubts along with it. As she rushes past the finish line, arms raised triumphantly above her head, she is no longer fat, or naïve, or second best, or any of the qualifiers she's been given her entire life. Monica is none of those things. Monica is a winner._

 _"_ _Monica?" The familiar voice rings out. She turns to the stands to look for her mother's face, giddy with anticipation for the pride she'll find there._

"Monica, are you there?...No? Well, I can't imagine where you could be. It's not like you're at your job, after all. Anyhow I just called to tell you that we've asked the Milners not to bring any dates along to dinner tomorrow night. It was a little embarrassing to tell the truth, but I know you wouldn't want to be the only single one there. And really I wasn't all that excited about that harpy Vanessa Milner rubbing that would-be son-in-law orthodontist in my face again. Well anyhow, see you then, dear. Don't wear that blue dress. Okay? Bye, now."

Monica rubs a hand across her tired eyes and reluctantly rises to a sitting position on her couch. Though a quick glance at her body reminds her that she's dropped the weight of her adolescence, the sweat of her dream is unfortunately still very, very real. It's hot in her apartment, even hotter than it'd been before she drifted off to sleep a few hours ago, the door to the terrace she'd left open to seduce a breeze doing little to alleviate the torrid air. As her mother had needlessly reminded her, Monica was currently unemployed and these late afternoon naps, probably brought on by the uncharacteristic depression she'd been experiencing, had become something of a staple. The sliver of remaining triumph she'd felt from her dream quickly evaporates as a quick glance at her answering machine confirms her mother's call is the only one of the afternoon, the numerous restaurants she'd rang that morning clearly uninterested in her services.

She deliberates a moment, trying to decide between nodding off once again or getting up from her nap, when the decision is made for her by the entrance of her two next door neighbors. The relationship between the friends is such that doors are always open, fridges often raided- hers anyhow, the boys seldom cooked- and privacy rarely respected.

Not surprisingly, Joey makes a beeline to the fridge with hardly a nod of acknowledgement in her direction. Belatedly she feels the cool crisp refrigerated air drift across the apartment and sits further up in her seat to catch the welcome breeze. Meanwhile, Chandler forgoes the kitchen in favor of plopping himself beside her on the couch, lifting and then gently replacing her calves into his lap. "How's it going?" He asks in a tone that is clearly trying, but failing, to conceal his concern.

"Eh," she replies, much too hot and depressed to attempt insincerity.

"That well, huh?" He asks with a wry smile patting her knee in comfort. "Hey," he tells her a moment later bouncing excitedly in his seat and rocking her legs up and down a bit with him, "I got stuck in an elevator at work today! The lights were out, there was no A.C. and Gladys from accounts payable, who always smells like pickles, was there with me!" He finishes triumphantly. "That's got to make you feel a little better, right?" He asks hopefully.

"It does actually," she tells him truthfully with what feels like her first smile of the day, sitting up fully now and reclaiming her legs to tuck them beneath her. "Why does she smell like pickles all the time?" She asks curiously.

"One of life's great mysteries," he tells her with a shrug, his boyish face breaking into a grin.

"Uh, now I want pickles," Joey tells them in exasperation, reversing his course from towards the living room back to the kitchen. "Do you have any in here?" Joey asks from behind the refrigerator door he's thrown open.

"Top shelf," Monica tells him.

"Sweet!" He exclaims bringing a large plate of food, and surely enough a pickle, into the living room and plopping into the large armchair before digging in.

"Jeez, Joey," Monica remarks, taking in Joey's impressive display of eating, "You'd think you didn't eat anything today."

"I haven't," Joey manages to mumble through a mouthful of sandwich. "Caterer never showed up at work today. There was no food, no cookies, no little mini-pizzas, or those little bread cups with the filling thingy." Joey laments sounding near tears at the absence of all his favorite snacks.

"So your play doesn't have a caterer?" Monica asks, excitement and hope, so long dormant, beginning to unfurl in her chest. Though not regarded as the most talented of stage presences by his friends who had endured their share of his off- off- off- Broadway productions over the years, Joey had somehow managed to snag the role as an understudy in the renowned Cherry Lane Theatre's production of _Cat on a Hot Tin Roof_ set to premier in the fall. The show was already getting an enormous amount of attention by the press and there was even talk that public broadcasting would be recording the production for television. Being affiliated with the show in any way was an honor, but Joey's role as the understudy to Brick meant he was just one man's stomach flu away from a huge break in his career. His casting had been a great mystery to them all until one day Monica had happened upon him and the play's director out to lunch. A beautiful, older woman, she'd looked at Joey like a hungry wolf might look at a chicken. Though her passion was really restaurant work, Monica could totally cater, especially for such a high profile production as Joey's play. Monica could cater her ass off.

"Nope," Joey answers conversationally, now through a mouthful of cold lasagna, clearly insensate to Monica's hints.

"Hmm, if only we knew someone who could cater and who didn't currently have a job," Chandler chimes in now, rubbing his chin in mock contemplation.

"I know," Joey answers him seriously, now shoveling spoonfuls of pie into his mouth. "I don't know what we're going to do."

"Do about what?" A new voice asks from the doorway. Monica's childhood friend and roommate Rachel, still as shimmery and toned in the hot summer weather as in Monica's dream, moves into the living room now, unceremoniously scooting Chandler over on the couch and settling herself in his place and grabbing a magazine from the side table.

"Joey's play needs a caterer," Monica tells her, leadingly.

"Oh hey, you could do that Mon," Rachel replies distractedly, already tuning out the conversation taking place in favor of the celebrity news of the day.

"Yeah, Monica," Chandler teases. "Why didn't you think of that?"

She spares him a quick eye roll before turning to Joey and pleading, "What do you think Joe? Do you think your bosses will go for it?"

"I'll talk to Gail, first thing tomorrow," Joey tells her excitedly. "This is going to be so cool, you working with me. Ooh, ooh. Can you make those little frittata things?"

"Get me that job, Joey, and I'll make whatever you want," Monica promises, already feeling the surge of energy that always erupts in her at the start of a new project. She's hardly paying attention to the conversation taking place between her friends, preoccupied with lists of groceries and equipment she'll need to procure when Joey's next words reclaim her attention.

"So Rebecca got really, really sick. Had to fly back home and everything and you guys are never going to believe who they brought in to take the role." Joey is telling Chandler and an inattentive Rachel.

"Al Pacino?" Chandler ponders aloud, ignoring the rhetorical nature of the question. "William Shatner? No, no. Judith Light. Is it Judith Light?" He continues excitedly as if he may have magically happened upon the correct answer.

"No man, but that would be awesome," Joey agrees before howling, "Angela!" The two friends snigger together at the Tony Danza impersonation before Joey clarifies, "It's Kathy. Remember her?"

Chandler does indeed remember Kathy. Truth be told, his remembrances of her are far fonder and more frequent than he'd like his friend to know, so he nervously rambles off a new list of celebrities hoping to disguise the quickening of his pulse and flush of heat the name evokes in him. "Um, Kathy who? Kathy Bates? Kathy Lee? Cathy the cartoon?"

"Of course you remember Kathy," Rachel interjects distractedly. Rachel, probably more than any of them, had been front and center for Chandler's brief but ardent obsession with Joey's ex-girlfriend. Chandler inwardly rues the toxic mix of an excellent memory, a love of gossip, and a disinterest in preserving Chandler's dignity that leads Rachel to add, "You were in love with her. Don't you remember?"

"No I wasn't," Chandler snaps back defensively. He must notice the strange looks the others are sending him however, because he adds a moment later with forced calmness, "You must be thinking of Joey. _Joey_ was in love with her."

He strains to catch Rachel's eye, but she remains happily unaware of his efforts, flipping idly through her Cosmopolitan.

"I wouldn't say love," Joey chimes in now, oblivious to Chandler's discomfort. "Though we had a pretty good run. Remember how you talked me into being more serious with her, Chandler?" Chandler remembers encouraging his roommate to date another woman he'd been seeing at the time, leaving Kathy unattached and available. But of course, his efforts had been perverted and the end result had been Joey and Kathy becoming closer. The twinge of resentment and bitterness he'd felt so deeply months ago watching his best friend romancing the girl of his dreams rises up in his gut joining the anxious tension that he's been feeling since Joey's mentioned Kathy's name.

"No, no. I distinctly remember Chandler moping around because he was in love with Kathy and she was dating…Ouch. Monica! Will you _please_ stop tapping me!" Rachel breaks off in exasperation, finally looking up from her reading to admonish the other woman who's been reaching around the back of the couch to pat her friend's arm with increasing force.

"I think you're thinking of Janice, Rachel," Monica tells her friend purposefully evoking one of Chandler's earlier thwarted love affairs. She not so subtly jerks her head towards Joey with an exaggerated raise of her eyebrows. Chandler appreciates the effort but can't help but marvel at how Joey could still fail to recognize the message in Monica's pretty terrible attempts at non-verbal communication. "Chandler was in love with Janice and she was in love with her husband. Chandler was moping around because of _Janice_." Monica enunciates the other woman's name as if speaking to a small child.

"Uh, don't get me started on Janice," Joey moans, before adding apologetically to Chandler, "Sorry dude, but she was the worst." As it happens his contrition is totally unnecessarily as Chandler couldn't be more thrilled that the conversation has moved away from his unrequited love for his roommate's once girlfriend and over to his one time love interest. "If you all are going to start yapping about Janice, I'm gonna go head back to the apartment," Joey announces vacating the arm chair and heading for the door. "Thanks for the grub, Monica," he tells her rubbing his noticeably bloated belly. "I can't wait to eat like that at work."

After confirming Joey's exit from the apartment, Chandler turns towards Rachel to ask angrily, "Are you crazy?"

"What?" She replies defensively.

"Joey never knew about my thing for Kathy, alright? And he's not going to know either, got it?" He snaps hurriedly with another glance back at the door.

"Yeah, okay," Rachel agrees petulantly. "Jeez. What's the big deal? It was like six months ago."

"It's not a big deal," Chandler insists, his excited demeanor contrasting markedly with his declaration. "I just don't want to explain to my best friend how I couldn't stop thinking about his girlfriend when they were together because I'm a terrible person."

"You're not a terrible person, honey. You didn't act on your feelings, right? Even though you thought she might be feeling something too. I'd say that makes you a good person," Monica tells him consolingly rubbing his back. "A good friend."

"Thank you, Monica," Chandler replies with a little smile for his friend before returning to Joey's news. "I can't believe Joey's in a play with Kathy," he sighs wistfully. There had been something about Joey's ex-girlfriend that had attracted Chandler like no woman had ever done before, even Janice whom he had loved as much as he thought possible. Some feeling like she and he belonged together, a kind of destiny or fate. "Do you think she's seeing anyone?" Chandler asks aloud a moment later, an idea beginning to form in the back of his mind.

"Oh, no," Rachel admonishes setting her magazine on the table beside her to point accusingly at Chandler. "I see what you're up to."

"What?" He proclaims in mock indignation. "It's an innocent question."

"Innocent, my butt." Rachel retorts. After a moment though she seems to reconsider, adding, "You know what? Forget it. I think you should go for it. You were crazy about her and I seem to remember that for some reason she was kind of into you too." Chandler is torn between feeling affronted at Rachel's slight and bolstered by her assessment that his feelings may not have been totally unrequited. "Enough time has passed that it won't be like you're breaking any _bro-code_ " Rachel air quotes the term with derision.

"Yeah?" Chandler asks hopefully. He hopes, prays really, that Rachel is right because one thing he knows for sure is that he's going to find a way into Joey's rehearsals and a chance to see Kathy again.

"Definitely," Rachel agrees. "But you need to be subtle about it." She looks him over before adding doubtfully, "Can you be subtle?"

"Sure," Chandler affirms demonstratively throwing his arms along the back of the sofa nearly taking off Monica's head in the process. "Subtle is my middle name."

"I thought your middle name was Mur…" Monica begins. Before she can finish her sentence though Chandler's warm hand is clamped tightly across her lips muffling her words.

"Don't you dare," he tells her seriously, still forcibly muzzling her. She has the childish impulse to lick his hand but thinks better of it and merely shrugs in acquiescence.

After a few threatening glances, he releases her and after assuring himself his hated moniker will remain a secret he asks distractedly, "What was I saying?"

"You were being subtle," Monica reminds him with a grin.

"Right," he replies adjusting in his seat to better face his friends, bouncing slightly in his excitement. "So how am I going to get into those rehearsals?"

"Getting into them should be easy enough," Monica reasons aloud. "There are plenty of excuses we could dream up for why you'd need to stop by to see Joey at work. The trick is going to be coming up with a reason for you to be around Kathy," she looks over at her friend who is still nervously bouncing his leg up and down listening intently to her plan. "Well that and keeping you from jumping all over her when you _are_ around her," she adds in mild disgust. What was it about a pretty girl that could reduce men to such driveling idiots?

"You're right," Chandler agrees nodding thoughtfully. "I need some excuse. I can't come off all pathetic and love sick."

They sit in contemplation for a bit, pondering Chandler's problem. Monica is just about to suggest he try to invite himself along to one of the cast outing she imagines they must take from time to time, when Chandler turns to her an odd glint in his eyes.

"What?" She asks suspiciously.

"You're going to be at rehearsals everyday," Chandler tells her smiling a little now.

"Yes," she agrees not liking what she suspects he's about to suggest.

"That must be a lot of work, catering for a big cast and crew like that. Especially if the show gets televised."

"No way," Monica states firmly cutting to the chase. There is no way she's going to let Chandler tag along on her catering gig just so he could make googly eyes at some woman. This was her career they were talking about!

"Come on, Mon. It will be perfect. I've got two weeks of vacation that I could use and no one would suspect anything besides that I was just there helping out my friend and I'd get to see her everyday," he abruptly ceases his recitation of the pros of his plan upon noticing Monica's unimpressed glare. "Oh come on!" He pleads, "I'd do it for you!"

"You wouldn't even give me the last blueberry muffin the other day," she reminds him.

"Please," he begs pathetically. "Pretty please? You want blueberries? I'll buy you all the blueberries you want. I'll buy you your own blueberry farm." When she still looks unmoved, he adds sincerely, "Please, Mon? I liked her so much and I think she liked me too. If I could just see her again…" He trails off sadly, looking to his friend pleadingly

Taking pity on him she reluctantly concedes, but not before confirming, "You'll work hard?"

"Harder than I've ever worked before."

"That's not saying much," she remarks wryly, before continuing her list of conditions, "You won't mess up the food?"

"I'll do everything perfectly. Better than perfect, Monica perfect!" He promises.

"And you really care about this girl?" She asks in a softer voice.

"I do," Chandler admits solemnly. "I really, really do."

"Alright then," Monica agrees in a huff. "You're hired."


	2. Monday, June 22nd

Chandler likes to think of himself as a fairly cultured guy. He likes novels and art okay and he doesn't mind theater on the television, quite likes the kind with singing and dancing actually. But there was something about being _at_ a play, sitting in the dark watching the actors pretending to be someone else on the stage that he has never really been able to get into. He always finds himself distracted by a noise a few rows away as a fellow patron shifts in their seat. Or spends half the time worrying his own seat shifting is being overheard. Sometimes he imagines he might suddenly lose control of himself and stand up to demand the actors break the fourth wall and acknowledge the audience. To be honest, he's actually pretty surprised you don't read about this happening more often.

However, now as he sits towards the back of the fully lit theater, watching the actors dressed in plain clothes reading through their scripts on an unadorned stage, it occurs to him that he must not have been seeing the right plays. Because this cast, and this play, and particularly Kathy as the desperate, lonely, bitter Maggie, have him absolutely transfixed. He watches her throat strain slightly as she reads her lines filled with frustrated desire and thwarted hopes, passionately delivered though the cast is merely in a casual read through. He had shown up to work this morning half hoping that six months of not seeing Kathy would have dampened this strange and unheralded passion he feels. That he could meet her casually in the hall and share a civil and unemotional conversation and that would be that. But he's finding now that quite the opposite seems to have occurred and as he watches her perform from afar, he finds he's as enamored as ever.

He's so preoccupied with the action taking place on the stage in front of him that he barely registers the small nudge against his shoulder till it grows in intensity finally accompanied by a long suffering sigh. He turns to find a girl standing behind him, a look of annoyance on her face.

"Um, hello," he tells her awkwardly when she continues to merely stare at him.

"Hi," she returns finally, plopping beside him and casually throwing a Converse sneaker covered foot over the chair in front of her.

It's his turn now to stare silently as he waits for his strange new companion to speak. Though there is something rather childish in her manner and dress, as he looks past her torn jeans and untucked flannel shirt he realizes that she is probably a bit older than he'd originally thought, only five or ten years younger than himself rather than the fifteen or so he'd originally suspected.

Still staring ahead at the stage in front of them she finally breaks their silence to ask, "You're the sandwich guy, right?"

"Well technically I'm the sandwich, snacks, and cookies guy" he jokes nervously, discomforted by the girl's strange demeanor. "Though my friends just call me sandwich guy."

She glances over at him with a hint of an eye roll in a look that seems to convey an odd mixture of both disdain as well as amusement.

They slip into another uncomfortable silence and Chandler is just mustering up the courage to ask who she is and what she wants when she abruptly states, "You know they're going to film this for TV, right?"

"I had heard that they might, yeah."

"No. They definitely are. I heard the director talking about it this morning," she corrects him. "I know everything that goes on around here," she turns to tell him defiantly as if daring him to challenge her.

"Okay," he appeases. Not sure what else to say, he turns his attention back to the stage just in time to see Kathy fudge one of her lines. She makes a self-deprecating gesture that causes the rest of the cast to laugh good-naturedly and as Chandler watches her pink cheeks and smiling eyes he finds himself chuckling along. Chandler's mirth is cut short a moment later however when the attractive actor sitting besides Kathy lays his hand upon her knee. She rests her own hand over his and enlaces their fingers in an intimate and familiar gesture that leaves Chandler feeling like knives are being twisted inside his chest.

"Ugh," the girl beside him huffs, reminding him of her presence. "Not you too."

"What?" He defends himself, embarrassed that he's worn his treacherous heart of his sleeve for this strange girl to see.

"Kathy," she tells him gesturing to the stage where the woman in question is currently working her way through Maggie's monologue. "You're all gaga about her," she accuses him.

"I'm not," he asserts unconvincingly.

"Are too."

"Am no-," Chandler cuts short the childish retort, instead taking a deep breath. He wonders why he's allowing himself to become so agitated by this odd and infuriating girl.

"Relax," she tells him, suddenly abandoning her combative attitude and lounging more deeply in her seat. "It's not like you're alone. Everybody loves _Kathy_ ," she whines the other woman's name with disdain. "You know she's with Nick, right?" She tells him bluntly, gesturing to the man holding Kathy's hand on stage. "So you should probably just forget about it."

Chandler had suspected as much, but hearing his fears confirmed just serve to make his spiral toward rock bottom complete. Of course, Kathy wouldn't be single. Why would a woman like that waste even a second on a loser like him? Why had he thought coming down here and seeing her again would make any difference? If she hadn't wanted him six months ago what earthly reason would she have to want him now?

"Look, I'm just here to help my friend make sandwiches," he tells her, realizing as he say so that with no chance of winning over Kathy, it's pretty much the truth. He's rather pleased to hear only a little bit of the resentment he feels over the matter has slipped into his voice.

"Oh yeah?" The girl ponders aloud. "Which one is she? The girl with the dark hair?"

"Yes. I think so, anyhow. Her name's Monica. Black hair, blue eyes?" _Death glare?_ He adds to himself with a laugh. He had been on the receiving end of many such looks this morning as he'd done his best to help out preparing the lunch trays.

"Yeah, I know her," the girl tells him, sounding unimpressed. "She's too skinny."

Chandler has never in a million years thought of describing his friend in this way. Sure she was thin, tiny really now that he thought of it. But anyone who knew Monica Geller knew she was like a force of nature. There was a lot of power packed into that small frame as Chandler knows only too well. He's about to come to her defense, when the girl throws him off kilter once more by announcing, "I think she likes you."

"Monica?" Chandler laughs. His new acquaintance has been fairly odd from the get go, but this is by far the craziest thing she's said yet. "Why do you think that?" He asks curious to know the twisted logic that would have brought her to such a ludicrous conclusion.

"She doesn't like the way you look at her," she gestures once more to Kathy on the stage before them.

This reply gives Chandler pause. Of course, Monica doesn't like Chandler in the way this girl seems to be suggesting. But is it possible she isn't thrilled about the prospect of Chandler pursuing Kathy? She had seemed a little hesitant about helping him get into rehearsals, but that had been about her catering reputation more than about Kathy, hadn't it? _Maybe she knew Kathy wouldn't be interested and she's trying to protect you_ , a traitorous voice in his head supplies. This seems much more likely, he thinks sadly. Monica would be too good of a friend to outwardly tell him he didn't stand a chance, but would hurt a little for him at the knowledge of his almost certain rejection. Monica really was a great friend, he concludes. He'd have to remember to buy her all those blueberries or do something equally kind for her when all this craziness was over.

He's about to disavow his companion of her misconceptions when they are interrupted by the conclusion of the read through and the loud announcement of "Lunch!"

"I gotta go," Chandler tells her hurriedly jumping up from his seat. If he's late to the food tables, he will most likely be receiving worse than Monica's death glares. "It was nice meeting you…" He pauses here waiting for the girl to provide a name.

"Nikki," she tells him reaching forward and shaking his hand. He hadn't been anticipating it so the movement is particularly awkward, though Chandler supposes that is in keeping with everything else to do with this strange girl. "It's actually Nicole, but I hate that. My friends call me Nikki. You can call me that," she adds sounding embarrassed and looking younger to him once more.

"Well, I'm actually Chandler," he tells her with a quick wave before jogging off to food services, "but my friends call me Sandwich Guy."

When he reaches food services he finds that his worries about upsetting Monica were not unfounded. Harried and angry, she roughly throws his apron to him in lieu of a greeting and the two get down to work. It isn't till a few minutes later once the tables are loaded with the sandwiches and the other sundries they'd made that morning that she finally relaxes enough for him to recount to her his strange encounter.

Though he had done his best to hide his disappointment when Nikki had informed him of Kathy's relationship with Nick he shows no such restraint when recounting the fact to his friend, rightfully believing he can expect sympathy and comfort from Monica.

"I just feel so stupid," he tells her miserably. "Coming up with this dumb plan, getting you involved. Could I _be_ anymore pathetic?" He laments dramatically before burying his head into her shoulder.

Monica throws her arms around her friend pulling him in for a hug and resting her cheek on the soft mop of brown hair that moves towards her with the gesture. Chandler is just thinking he might like to stay like this forever, too depressed to even sit upright anymore, when he is pulled back into the present moment by a voice calling his name in surprise, "Chandler?"

He looks up, head still buried in Monica's forearm to see the woman at the center of his misery standing above him. Of course, when he finally got to see Kathy after all this time it would be in some ridiculous situation like this, he thinks miserably to himself, disengaging from Monica's embrace and running a nervous hand through his hair.

"Kathy, hi," he stutters nervously. "Hello, hi." He repeats needlessly. He throws Monica a desperate look, who jumps in to assist him.

"Hey, Kathy," she says with a wave at the other woman. "Joey mentioned you were in the play. Congratulations on the role."

"Thanks," Kathy answers distractedly, eyes never leaving Chandler. "What are you doing here?"

Despite the somewhat irrational dislike Monica has for this woman who's managed to become an object of infatuation for her friend, she does feel pity for Kathy who seems totally astonished by Chandler's appearance at her place of work and not at all unaffected by his presence. Maybe Rachel was on to something when she'd thought Kathy might have been interested in Chandler after all.

"He's helping me," Monica supplies when it looks as though Chandler still is momentarily tongue-tied.

"Sandwiches," Chandler announces, grimacing at his own contribution a moment later. Monica can't help but chuckle a bit at this. Her friend really was abominable with women.

"Oh," Kathy replies a bit sadly before adding. "Are you two," she pauses here to gesture between the two of them, "together?"

"Yeah, we're working together. To make sandwiches," Chandler tells her idiotically, clearly too nervous to understand the gist of the question.

"Chandler's helping me with catering service. But we aren't _together_ ," Monica explains with her own gesture between herself and her friend. She doesn't fail to notice the relief that seems to sweep across Kathy's face at her clarification. Yes, Kathy is definitely still interested in her friend, Monica concludes, despite whatever her relationship might be with this Nick person.

"So you'll be around a lot?" Kathy asks brightly eyes still on Chandler.

"Morning, noon, and night," Chandler tells her, finally seeming to recover some of his senses.

"That's great," Kathy replies placing a hand on Chandler's forearm, physical contact that seems highly unnecessary to Monica. "It will be great to catch up," she tells him softly.

Chandler wills himself to stop staring at her hand resting on his arm and to say something intelligible in response, preferably something not involving sandwiches, when he's interrupted by a familiar voice.

"Hey Chandler," Nikki's voice rings out thick with scorn, "I see you've met my sister. And here I thought you were just here to make the sandwiches."


	3. Thursday, June 25th

"What's that smell?" Monica asks as she and Chandler reach the shared hallway of their apartment building. Being neighbors with one of your best friends has many advantages as the pair have discovered over the years, not the least of which is that Chandler would have an opportunity to stop at his own place for a bit after a long day at rehearsals before heading back to Monica's to prep for tomorrow's menu.

"Smells like food," Chandler says giving the air a curious sniff. It's definitely not a smell he associates with pizza or sandwiches though, so he can't for the life of him imagine how it happens to be emanating from his apartment.

"You think, Sherlock?" Monica responds sarcastically, clearly not impressed by his deduction.

"Well excuse me," Chandler retorts, "Aren't you supposed to be the foodie here?"

"Don't be so modest," she tells him playfully as he fiddles with his keys, working to open the front door. "I happen to know you've been moonlighting in the food industry all this past week." Her desire to know the source of the mystery smell has her shadowing his movements, making a quick detour to his and Joey's apartment en route to her own. He's just about to say something about being a man of many hidden talents, when the comment dies in his throat.

Swinging open the door to apartment nineteen reveals a rather extraordinary sight. The lights are off and the only illumination in the room comes from the dozens of lit candles littering every available surface with the exception of the breakfast bar. This area has been reserved for Joey evidently, who lies face down in his undershirt and boxers. Looming above him stands a tall blonde woman, bangle-adorned forearms raised dramatically before her. She holds in her hands the source of the mysterious aroma, a bundle of what Chandler thinks may be twigs, which is giving off an alarming plume of smoke. At just that moment a chicken and a duck, the unusual but well loved pets of the two roommates, wander across the room creating a visual tableau worthy of David Lynch.

To someone unfamiliar with Phoebe Buffay the scene might elicit some alarm or at least some mild shock. But for Chandler and Monica, who have known the street urchin turned masseuse for nearly a decade, the scene merely piques their curiosity.

"Whatcha doing?" Chandler sing-songs nonchalantly, stepping into the apartment to greet his friends.

"Chandler!" The dreamy look Phoebe's face held moments before dissipates in an instant, replaced suddenly by a very annoyed scowl. "You just punctured Joey's protection bubble!"

Chandler's on the verge of remarking that her bubble must not be all that effective if his merely walking into the room was enough to penetrate its defenses, but he's cut short by the glare his eccentric friend is sending his way.

"Protection what?" Monica asks, unafraid of Phoebe's wrath, or much else for that matter, Chandler thinks to himself fondly. "Is that sage?" She adds a moment later with interest.

"Hey guys," Joey greets happily, lazily turning towards them, a goofy smile plastered on his face. "Pheebs is scubbing my shark-ass. My shark-ase… char-kas," He fumbles a few times playing with the sound his words make before announcing exuberantly, "Chakka Chan!"

"Smudging your chakras," Phoebe corrects him in annoyance, all pretense of tranquility gone from her demeanor.

"Yeah, I'm not sure the kitchen is the best spot for that," Chandler remarks moving past his friends to drop into his recliner beyond them in the living room.

"And when you're done with that, you're probably gonna want to give that counter a good scrubbing too," Monica adds crossing the room to join him, perching herself on the armrest of his chair.

"Har-har," Phoebe scoffs helping Joey into a sitting position before spinning round. "You can laugh all you want, but you should have seen him before," she gestures towards their friend who seems to be having some trouble staying upright on the counter top. "His aura was all murky green," she tells them defensively. "Like yours always is," she adds pointing accusingly at Chandler.

"Nuh-uh," Chandler counters looking down defensively at himself. "I'm pink and rosy," he tells her defiantly holding up his pale lightly freckled arm as evidence.

"Yeah you are!" Joey agrees happily, jumping and landing awkwardly from his perch on the counter before stumbling towards his own chair and collapsing into his seat. "Pink like a pig," he reiterates before throwing his head back and shutting his eyes heavily.

"What's up with him?" Chandler asks Phoebe in alarm just beginning to recognize the bizarre behavior of his roommate since he and Monica have arrived.

"He's all looped out on pills," she explains extinguishing her bundle of sage under the kitchen sink and switching on the electric lights of the apartment. "Western medicine's answer to everything," she adds derisively.

"Well is he alright?" Chandler asks staring over at his friend in concern.

"Yeah. He will be," Phoebe tells them coming into the living room to blow out the last of the remaining candles before sitting on the armchair of Joey's seat, mirroring Monica's position on Chandler's matching chair. "I guess he had to have an emergency root canal this afternoon. The dentist gave him something for the pain."

"I'm fine," Joey tells them, still reclining with his eyes closed. "Actually I feel super," he clarifies opening a sleepy eye to send them a wink. "Better than I have all week."

"Things have been kind of rough at rehearsals, huh?" Chandler asks sympathetically. He knows how disappointed Joey's been to be so close yet so far away from landing a lead role in a major production. His frustration had only grown with the announcement that the show was going to be filmed for television.

"It's so unfair," Joey groans unhappily. He's quiet for a number of moments after this pronouncement so that Chandler almost thinks he might have fallen asleep before Joey reasserts himself a moment later sitting taller in his seat. "You know, it _shoulda_ been me doing the thing, not him," he tells them defiantly, pointing at himself and then nonsensically towards the empty kitchen. Monica and Chandler turn as one to look at the non-entity Joey's has referenced before turning back to their friend. " _Woulda_ been me if I had done that other thing instead of him," Joey finishes before resting against the headrest once more.

" _Coulda_ you translate that?" A bewildered Chandler asks Phoebe who had been nodding her head sympathetically along with Joey's tirade.

"There's a rumor going around that that Nick guy only got the part over Joey because he fooled around with Gail, the director," Phoebe tells them rubbing Joey's arm with concern. "We better not talk about it too much," she adds looking over at Joey worriedly, "he's starting to go green again."

"But Nick is with Kathy!" Chandler retorts indignantly, earning him an eye roll and audible scoff from Monica.

"What?" He asks her defensively.

"Nothing," Monica tells him with false indifference before leaning in to whisper accusingly, "I just find it a little rich that you of all people would be outraged over infidelity between Nick and Kathy."

"It was before they got together," Joey pipes in now, sounding more asleep than awake. "He feels really bad about it. Kathy doesn't know, but Gail's been getting all handsy lately. Doesn't want her to find out. He's a nice guy," Joey tells them with a cheerful slur, before adding in a spiteful tone Chandler's rarely heard from his usually good-natured roommate, "God, I hate him."

"You never know," Monica begins tentatively trying to cheer up Joey, whose aura even Chandler has to admit is probably now certainly chartreuse at best, "he may have to drop out yet."

"Yeah," Chandler agrees, picking up on Monica's tone and purpose. "He could get another role, or get sick, or…"

"Or I could put a curse on him," Phoebe offers, sounding frighteningly pleased with the idea.

"Or I could kill him," Joey mutters miserably. He sounds suddenly much more lucid than before and deadly serious. It gives Chandler pause and he feels momentarily chilled when he meets his roommate's eyes across the living room. A moment later however, the impression is gone and the same old dopey loveable face he's known for years is looking back at him. "I just really want that part," Joey moans afresh.

"He should just quit," Monica supplies now angry in solidarity with Joey. "Yeah he'd lose the part," she reasons aloud, "but then he wouldn't have to worry about Gail, or about messing things up with Kathy."

"He's not gonna quit," Joey counters sadly. "No one's stupid enough to walk away from that gig. And that TV guy is his like his old friend from college or something too."

"But what about the Kathy thing?" Chandler asks hoping he doesn't sound too eager to hear more about the possible strife that may exist between Kathy and Nick.

"I don't know, man," Joey answers sleepily, clearing giving into the haze of his painkillers once more. "Rumor has it they might be on the rocks anyhow.""

Chandler has to actively work to keep the excitement he feels over Joey's pronouncement from showing, though the suspicious glance Monica is sending his way suggest he might not be doing such a great job of it. He's saved the effort of hiding his happiness a moment later however when Joey continues his assessment of Kathy and Nick's relationship, his words quickly bringing Chandler's elevated mood back to earth.

"It's weird though because they were all crazy in love just a few weeks ago. That guy was a real mess before he and Kathy got together. I don't know what he'd do if he lost her."

…..

"I know, I know," he tells Monica in defeat as soon as the door to apartment twenty has shut behind them. "I need to back off."

She nods at him sadly, "I'm afraid so." It's not that Chandler _has_ to stop pursuing Kathy necessarily. It isn't like he owes anything to Nick. But Monica knows Chandler, knows the kind of person he is, and she knows he's never going to be happy in a relationship that begins with breaking up someone else's.

"Ugh! This sucks." He collapses onto her sofa in frustration, giving fully into his misery for a moment. Shoulders hunched and face in his hands he looks the very picture of unhappiness and Monica finds herself seated beside him, rubbing consoling circles against his back before she's even made the conscious decision to comfort him.

"I'm right back where I was six months ago," he complains sadly, sitting up once more to lean heavily against the sofa cushions. He takes her hand that has drifted from his back to his shoulder into his own, and begins idly playing with her fingers, a restless and unconscious act that briefly distracts her from his words. "Only this time I've been stupid enough to put myself in a position to see her with the other guy every single day."

As she sits beside him, studying his profile Monica thinks of how rare it is to find her friend so still. With Chandler, usually even his despair has a desperate sort of energy about it. But today there is an unnaturally quiet resignation about him that breaks her heart. As her eyes travel from his hairline, to his nose, to the slope of his chin, she thinks of a thousand different platitudes that she could offer, all equally clichéd and likely ineffectual. Knowing she must say something though, she offers the oldest and most hackneyed, "You know Kathy's not the only woman in New York City, right? I know its hard now, but you'll get over her eventually and meet someone new. You know, other fish in the sea, and all that?"

"Yeah but none of those fish are women that want to date me," he deadpans and Monica takes it as a small victory that she's managed to elicit at least a little weak joking out of him.

"What about Nicole?" Its not that Monica particularly wants to see Chandler with Kathy's hostile sister, on the contrary there is something about the other woman that puts her on edge, but she can't stand to think of Chandler walking around thinking no one wants him when its so obvious that both Kathy and her sister are interested.

"Who?" He asks looking genuinely confused.

"Nicole? Kathy's sister?" Monica asks incredulous. Monica almost feels sorry for the strange younger woman. Is it really possible that Chandler's been so infatuated with the one sister that he's failed to notice the attentions of the other? Though it would be difficult to describe Nicole's behavior as flirting in the traditional sense, the girl has been a constant presence by Chandler's side, excepting when he's been off with Kathy, and had her eyes on him the rest of the time since the first day they started working at the theater.

"Oh, you mean Nikki," Chandler clarifies with understanding. "We're not like that," he tells her dismissively. "That's nothing. She's just a kid."

"Okay first off, you know you're the only one she lets call her that, right?" Monica asks him, snatching back her hand and sitting up taller in her seat. Though she knows it's entirely irrational she feels suddenly angry with him and his dismissal of Nicole. "I'm serious," she continues a moment later when he seems to disregard her point. "Even Kathy calls her Nicole. And she's not that young, Chandler. She's only five years younger than us." He still looks unconvinced, so she adds, "You may not see her that way but that doesn't mean she isn't feeling something for you," hoping to alert him to any possible drama that may be lurking in his friendship with Kathy's sister.

"Look, I know it may look like something from the outside, but it really isn't like that. We just get along, is all. She's sort of messed up actually," _like me_ , he adds to himself. He's not really sure how to explain his relationship with Nikki to anyone, not even Monica. Chandler can't remember a time when he didn't feel like the most awkward person in the room. There is something so refreshing about hanging out with Nikki, knowing that no matter what ridiculous thought might occur to him or inappropriate thing he may blurt out there is someone else around who's thinking or saying worse. He can't say for certain what she thinks of their whole relationship, Nikki is notoriously hard to read, but he's pretty sure she finds him too dorky, a little too much sweater vest and not enough leather jacket, to consider him romantically.

"Face it Monica, some people are just destined to be lonely losers," he tells her gloomily sinking even lower into the couch.

In an instant the anger she'd been feeling towards him dissipates at his self-deprecating remark. "Well that makes two of us, then," she tells him giving into his pessimistic outlook. "A couple of lonely losers," she tells him grabbing the remote control from the coffee table and snuggling into his side.

"A pair of sad sacks," he adds tugging her closer and resting his chin on her head.

They have tons of puff pastries to stuff, wheels of provolone to slice, and dozens of melons to ball, but as Monica rests her cheek against the soft cotton of sweatshirt and focuses her attentions on the television the anxiety she should be feeling melts away. They make a great team and some way or another they'll get it all done.


	4. Friday afternoon, June 26th

Monica heaves a heavy sigh as she stares wistfully over at Chandler and Nicole sitting cozily together in the designated lounge area at the other end of the room. The sofas have been provided for the actors to use during breaks, but as the cast are currently occupied in an ensemble rehearsal, her friend and his newly acquired sidekick have them wholly to themselves. They are playing some kind of card game from what Monica can make out and Chandler must be making some particularly Chandler-esque joke, as Nicole smacks his arm gently, her lips turning up ever so slightly at one corner, a gesture which for the usually stoic and impassive woman, is almost akin to a belly laugh.

The scene leaves Monica feeling irritable and she reasons she must be jealous that Chandler's getting an opportunity to flirt and relax while she's stuck behind the craft services table chopping parsley for garnishing the lunchtime platters. _Well you did tell him to take a break_ , Monica reminds herself ruefully willing herself to shake the foul mood that seems to have encompassed her. She's just about managed it too, ignoring Chandler's strange courtship in favor of arranging canapés, a task that's always brought her a sense of calm, when a second, quieter but more subversive inner voice adds, _and encouraged him to pursue Nicole_ , a reminder that quickly returns her to her bad temper.

Deciding that her current station, directly in the line of view of the lounge area, is probably not ideal for ignoring Chandler and Nicole's flirtations, she makes to return back to the makeshift kitchen she's assembled in the next room, when her progress is impeded by the sudden appearance of a broad Argyle-adorned chest.

"Um, hello," a rich baritone greets, and Monica raises her eyes, no small task given the height of her new acquaintance, to look into one of the handsomest faces she has ever had the pleasure to come across.

"Hello yourself," she responds, subconsciously channeling her inner Mae West and then blushing furiously at the realization. _Down, girl,_ her unusually chatty inner voice admonishes.

The handsome stranger just grins knowingly at her in response, clearly inured to the effect he has on women.

"Do you happen to know where I can find Nick Harrison?" He asks her with a grin that suggests far too much self-awareness of his effect on her than is entirely gentlemanly. It occurs to Monica that she is still basically standing against this beautiful giant's chest and neither she nor he have done anything to rectify their current positions.

The realization leaves her momentarily mute, which he must misconstrue as ignorance for he adds hastily a moment later, finally retreating from her personal space a few small steps, "Sorry, I thought maybe you were an actress here."

"Me? An actress?" Monica replies with a rather unladylike snort of laughter she instantly regrets.

"No?" He asks sounding sincerely surprised. "I just figured," he pauses here to give her that grin again that seems to have the immediate effect of warming her from head to toe, "given how beautiful you are, that you'd be a natural on the stage, or in front of a camera."

"Pfft," Monica exclaims dismissively. "Beautiful? Pfft!" She repeats wondering idly all the while if it is physically possible to die of embarrassment.

Luckily this hunk must be into awkward socially inappropriate women because rather than running the other way as quickly as humanly possible as expected, he casually leans against the table beside them in a gesture that effectively brings him closer to eye level and firmly reinserts him back into her personal space to ask flirtatiously, "So if you aren't an actress, what are you doing here?"

"What's a girl like me doing in a place like this?" Monica rephrases his question jokingly, her own flirting skills finally showing some signs of life.

"In a matter of speaking," he agrees with a laugh.

"I'm the caterer," she tells him, feeling a little defeated in the admission. It's not that she doesn't like the work, but a part of her would have loved to impress this would-be suitor with some fancy high-end restaurant job.

"Ah, I see," he nods in understanding. "So does the lovely caterer have a name?"

"She does," Monica smiles, extending a hand and introducing herself, "Monica Geller."

"Nice to meet you, Monica. I'm Brian. Brian Naughton," he replies taking her hand in his own. "I'm with PBS. I'm going to be directing the filming of the play for television."

"Oh yeah," Monica responds excitedly. "I heard about that. It's all the cast can talk about. They're really excited. It's going to be huge for them."

"For me too," Brian tells her. For a moment the suave bravado Monica's come to associate with him seems to falter as he admits seriously, "This is the biggest opportunity I've ever had. I just hope I don't blow it."

"Well they must have hired you for a reason," Monica assures him. This new anxious, almost insecure quality doesn't suit her new friend nearly as much as his earlier charming swagger.

"Actually, I think I only got the job because of Nick," he admits with an easy laugh. Monica is pleased to see that this new topic of conversation seems to have brought some of the spark back into his light handsome eyes. "He and I go way back. We're practically brothers."

"Oh yeah? Did he used to rip the heads off your Barbies and feed them to his dinosaur figurines too?" At his confused but amused expression, she clarifies, "I have an _actual_ brother. But I think I like your version better."

"Yeah," he agrees with a laugh. "I guess you could say that we're better than brothers. All the support and none of the Barbie sacrifice."

"Sounds pretty sweet," Monica concurs. "Though I think with Ross and me, our friendship really grew out of the fights. Hard to imagine us having one without the other."

"Unfortunately, I wouldn't know too much about that," he replies with a sad sigh looking away for a moment. "I had a brother once," he explains, bringing his attention back to Monica, "but he died when we were teenagers. I'm afraid we never really got out of the bickering stage and into the friendship one."

"Oh my God, I am so sorry," Monica apologizes, sorry for his loss as well as for eliciting, however inadvertently, the tragic tale of his brother's death.

"It's okay," he tells her, rubbing her shoulder gently and Monica feels doubly awful that now she's making this poor man comfort _her_ at _his_ sad memory. "Really," he stresses with a small smile, "It was a long time ago and you had no way of knowing."

"Still," Monica replies, "I am truly sorry."

"Thanks," he smiles sincerely, and of his many different expressions she's seen during their short acquaintance so far this is definitely her favorite.

"So," he begins a moment later breaking the quiet that has fallen over them, "What's good to eat here? I hear the caterer is pretty talented," he gives her his suave grin once more and adds, "and pretty easy on the eyes too."

She's just about to offer him one of her signature salmon mousse profiteroles- though her flirting skills may be lacking, these babies have never failed her yet- when they are interrupted by an exuberant voice calling out, "Brian!"

"Nicky!" Brian exclaims happily, coming out from behind the table to heartily embrace the other man. Monica smiles widely at the scene, touched by the boyish quality that has come over each of the men in the other's company.

"I'm so glad you're here, man," Nick tells him. While both men are undeniably handsome, the two boyhood friends are a lesson in contrasts: Nick Harrison, dark and athletic, and Brian Naughton, fair and elegant.

"Me too," Brian tells him earnestly. "I just got into town but I'm already having a great time," he adds looking back meaningfully at Monica.

"Well I can't wait to catch up," Nick tells him. "Are you coming out for drinks tonight? I can't wait for you to meet Kathy and the rest of the cast."

"Drinks?" Brian asks in surprise.

"Soda for me," Nick clarifies. "I'm not a drinker," he explains with a smile to Monica. "But this place does serve some mean chicken wings. So are you in?"

"Well that depends," Brian responds, again throwing Monica another grin. "Would you like to get drinks tonight?" Brian asks her. "After we have dinner of course," he adds cheekily.

"Well…" Monica hesitates a moment, surprising herself at her indecision. Of course she should go out with this attractive, interesting, and interested guy. What could possibly be holding her back? As she buys herself time, pretending to mull Brian's offer by looking leisurely around the room, her gaze falls back on the lounge area where Chandler and Nicole sit. Their card game has clearly devolved from its original form and has now become simply a pursuit of throwing the cards at one another. Nicole lands a particularly good toss with her card sticking to Chandler's hair, which causes the two to burst into a fit of laughter that echoes throughout the room.

"You know what," Monica replies bringing her attention back to Brian and his offer, "I think I'd like that very much."

….

Half an hour into drinks and Monica is starting to regret her decision. It's not that Brian isn't just as handsome and charismatic as he'd been that afternoon, but there is a definite weird energy around the table that even his charms can't seem to alleviate. It doesn't help any either that Chandler and Nicole have come along as well and have, as usual, begun a little colony of two at the end of the table. Monica notes that Kathy seems to have noticed this as well, catching the other woman glancing down the table when she thinks no one is watching. The only one amongst them who seems not to feel the oppressive awkwardness of the evening is Nick, who happily runs the conversation, again and again returning to his favorite topic, the talents of his long time friend.

"You see this guy?" He asks them, gesturing to Brian who laughs lightly at his friend and offers a small wave to the table. "This guy is going to be the next Stanley Kubrick. Mark my words."

"Oh I don't know about that," Brian humbly replies, before adding with a much more characteristic bravado, "Kubrick has never won an Oscar. Maybe I could be the next, John Ford, instead."

"John Ford?" Monica asks, having never heard the name before.

" _Grapes of Wrath_? _The Quiet Man_? He won four Academy Awards for Best Director," Brian tells her. "How have you never heard of him before?" He asks incredulous.

"Sorry." Monica replies, a little put off by Brian's censure. "What about James Cameron? Or that guy who did _Home Alone_? They're pretty famous." She offers defensively.

"Chris Columbus? C'mon Monica, those guys are hacks. I don't want to just be famous. I want to be _the best_." Monica nods in understanding at this. Competition? Wanting to be the best? Monica knows exactly what it is to crave that validation that only winning can provide. What is any of your hard work and effort for if there isn't someone at the end of it all there to acknowledge your victory?

"Yeah, but at what cost?" Nick asks softly in a sad hollow voice that seems entirely incongruous with his earlier jovial attitude.

"What are you talking about?" Brian asks in concern, sounding suddenly somber himself.

"Nothing. It's nothing," Nick replies shaking his head briefly as if to lift the gloom that has suddenly settled around his shoulders. "It's just that I used to feel like that too. And I did some things, well you know," he says cryptically to Brian before continuing, "I did some things I'm not proud of and I was in a really dark place. Really dark," he stresses before continuing, "and then I met Kathy." Here he breaks his monologue briefly to take Kathy's hand in his own. She seems surprised and truthfully a little uncomfortable with this announcement, sending him an embarrassed smile before taking a long swig of her cocktail. Watching the awkward series of events, Monica wishes suddenly that she and Chandler had never wandered into this messy web of relationships. A quick glance at her friend at the end of the table confirms he's having a similar thought as he shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

"I met you," he tells Kathy directly now, causing her discomfort to visibly increase, though Nick seems not to notice, "and I realized that I don't have to be the best or win at everything. I could be myself, just myself, tell you the truth about me, and you'd still love me regardless. That's what I want for you Bri," he tells his friend now, swinging round to the other man to plead with him earnestly, "Just to find someone to take the pressure off; to unburden yourself to. It just takes one person man, just one…"

But Nick's speech is interrupted sharply now by an apparently drunken Joey who chimes in, "Oh, so you tell each other _everything_ , huh?" To be honest, Monica had almost forgotten Joey was one of their party given he's spent the majority of the evening quietly huddled in the corner nursing his drink. But he makes up for his previous anonymity now, repeating loudly with a slight slur, "You tell each other every little thing, right?"

Brian looks at Joey in concern then back to Nick and Kathy before asking Monica, "Is he alright?"

Monica is not at all sure. She wonders how and when Joey's managed to drink as much as he must have done to appear quite so drunk and belligerent. She's about to intervene when Chandler beats her to it, rising quickly to stand beside Joey's seat.

"You know, I think maybe you should come with me to the restroom, big guy," Chandler tells him trying rather unsuccessfully to help Joey to his feet.

"But I don't need to go," Joey replies in a childish whine.

"Yeah, but I think we should go all the same. Here we go, upsy-daisy," Chandler singsongs finally managing to lift his friend.

He's maneuvered Joey away from the group and towards the restrooms when Joey suddenly breaks free from Chandler's grasp and hurls himself back crashing into the table and rattling their drinks in the process. "I know about guys like you," he pronounces angrily pointing at Nick and Brian. "I know the kind of stuff you do to get to the top. But the thing about the top is that it's a mighty long drop from up there. Mighty long!" He finishes waving a finger demonstratively at them all.

They stare in silent shock as Chandler's finally manages to corral Joey once more and leads him stumbling away towards the restrooms, a string of muttered Italian curse words in his wake.


	5. Friday night, June 26th

"Vaffanculo!" Joey mutters head slumped forward on his chest, swaying dangerously on the toilet seat.

Chandler runs a wad of paper towels under the cold spray of the bathroom sink, returning to his friend's side and dabbing them along his roommate's neck. He's been friends with Joey for years and while he's seen him angry and he's seen him drunk, he's never quite seen him like this before. "What in the world did you drink?" He asks in confusion not really imagining he'll get a comprehensive answer from his friend till he's had a chance to sleep whatever it was off.

To his surprise, Joey's answer is immediate and coherent, "Two Jack and Cokes. Well one and a half. I spilled," he admits suddenly giggly, all traces of his earlier rage gone.

"Two or twenty?" Chandler asks in confusion guessing his friend must have lost track somewhere along the line. "Let me see your wallet," he orders figuring he can look for a receipt or at least see how much money his friend has blown through tonight to get some sense of how much he's drunk. As Joey fumbles in his pocket in search of his wallet, a small pill bottle rolls onto the floor and Chandler suddenly realizes what must be responsible for his friend's sudden and uncharacteristic intoxication.

"Joe," he asks tentatively already knowing the answer, "Did you take some of these pain meds tonight?"

"Yes, _Dad_ ," Joey admits sarcastically. "But only the reco- recomme- recollected dose, _Dad_." Joey repeats with a chuckle, clearly taken by his own joke.

"What is this stuff anyhow," Chandler wonders aloud looking at the bottle's label. "Hydrocodone? This is some hardcore medicine, Joey. You can't be drinking on this stuff," Chandler scolds, grateful that he'd managed to intervene before his friend had an opportunity to drink any more and cause more serious damage.

His words of caution are lost on Joey however, who has fallen asleep, head resting against the stall wall pillowed by a, thankfully full, toilet paper roll. Placing the pill bottle on the sink counter and ensuring that Joey is stable in his makeshift bed, he leaves the restrooms, meaning to make their apologies, say their goodbyes, and call a cab.

As he walks along the long darkened corridor that leads back to the bar, Chandler suddenly makes out Kathy standing alone in the passageway. Her eye makeup is slightly smudged around her overly bright brown eyes and this combined with the slight sheen to her forehead tell Chandler she's clearly been over-served. However, for all her dishevelment, Chandler still thinks she's the most beautiful woman he's ever seen.

"Chandler! Hi!" She enthuses when he finally comes into focus. Though the hallway wall has been doing a fine job of holding her up till now, she reaches between them to grab ahold of his jacket as if her remaining standing depended on it. The movement pulls him closer to her and he catches a quick whiff of her perfume and the slightly sweet smell of gin on her breath. Her initial bright smile drops to a pout as she tells him sulkily, "I hardly get to see you anymore."

"Yeah," he agrees, torn between the pleasure he feels at being the object of her attention, be it however brief and drunken, and the guilty sensation he's come to associate with being near her. He recollects Nick's haunted expression from earlier when describing his life before Kathy and takes a step back from the woman in question.

"I hate that. I thought that with you working at the theater and all, we'd get to spend more time together." The hand that had been clenched around his lapel now travels from his shoulder to stomach, soothing the aggrieved fabric of his jacket in a gesture Chandler feels right down to his toes.

"Yeah," he echoes dumbly, afraid that if he allows himself to speak any more it will only be to declare his undying love.

"Do you want to know a secret?" She asks him playfully reclaiming the step he'd retreated moments before and resting her head on his shoulder, fingers now fidgeting with his jacket once more, undoing all their previous good work.

"Okay," he laughs despite himself. Drunk people could be oddly adorable. Or maybe it was just Kathy that was adorable, drunk or sober.

"I'm drunk," she announces with a giggle.

"Really?" Chandler asks feigning astonishment that pushes Kathy's lady-like titter over to an all out chortle.

"Mm-hmm," she tells him smacking her lips a bit in the process. And, dammit, now he's staring at her lips.

Finally surrendering, Chandler abandons his reservations for just a moment and putting his arm around her shoulders lets himself enjoy the feeling of holding the woman he's liked for forever in his arms.

She gives a sleepy contented sigh and Chandler has the absurd desire to simply freeze time and stay in this moment for the rest of his life.

But like most good things in Chandler's life, the spell is broken, shattered really, when a moment later she mumbles forlornly into his chest, "And I'm sad."

"You are?" He asks tugging her closer as if hugging her tightly could somehow keep her from falling apart.

Despite his efforts she shifts slightly from of his embrace now to better look into his face and answers his question with one of her own, "Have you ever felt trapped?"

Her demeanor, her words, the frantic desperate look that has come into her eyes, have him swallowing the joking reply he'd been formulating. He's just preparing to answer honestly that he _has_ felt trapped, trapped in a job he doesn't care about, in hobbies that don't interest him, in relationships that don't pan out the way he hopes, when she continues, "I have. I feel trapped every single day. Some days I think I might…" She trails off burying her face in his jacket once more.

It occurs to him that this is not a conversation so much as a confession so he shelves his reply and merely prods her gently, "Might what?"

But it seems like her taste for revelation has vanished as suddenly as it appeared because she takes his jacket in both hands now so that she is flush against him and replies flippantly, "Don't listen to me." All trace of her anguish from before is gone as she smiles up warmly at him and reminds him, "I'm drunk."

She may be able to shake the dark specter of her admission easily enough, but it has effectively ruined the moment for Chandler who looks down at his lovely companion in concern. "I think we better get you home," he tells her.

"Ugh," she moans in response. "I can't drive like this. I'll have to leave my car at the theater."

"Can't Nick drive? He hasn't been drinking." Chandler tries to keep the bitterness he feels out of his voice when speaking the other man's name.

"What?" Kathy asks distractedly as she fumbles about in her purse. "I can't find my wallet. How am I supposed to pay for the cab?"

"Nick," Chandler repeats himself. "Can't Nick drive?"

"Nicky doesn't drive, silly," Kathy tells him, bringing her attention from her bag back to Chandler and punctuating the term of endearment with a tap on his nose. Definitely one too many drinks, Chandler thinks, feeling suddenly stupid for making too much of the intimacy they'd shared a moment ago. She probably won't even remember this conversation tomorrow, he thinks ruefully.

"Not Nikki," he tries one last time, " _Nick_."

"Chandler, I don't really want to talk about Nick, right now," she tells him in annoyance, tugging his lapels once more to drag him even closer.

"You don't?" He asks, suddenly nervous.

"No," she shakes her head slightly, a small teasing grin beginning to grow on her face.

"Why's that?" He barely whispers the words. He finds himself suddenly inexplicably frightened by the woman in front of him.

"Because I'd rather do this." She whispers back before closing the distance between them and kissing him fully on the lips.

…

Monica looks over her shoulder scanning the crowded bar for some sign of their party. After Joey's bizarre outburst they'd all slowly dispersed, Nick and Brian off in one direction, Kathy and Nicole in another and Monica feels oddly unsettled as the minutes tick by without anyone's reemergence. She turns to try once more to flag down the ever-elusive bartender that's had her waiting for a fresh drink for the last ten minutes, when at least one piece of the mystery is solved.

Sitting two bar stools away is Nicole. The empty tumblers before her suggest she's had a tad bit more success with the bartender tonight than Monica, though she too seems to be trying and failing to replenish her drink. "A little service down here," she shouts impatiently tapping her empty glass on the bar in an attempt to get the server's attention.

"I never took you for an alky," Monica greets, moving the distance between them and claiming the neighboring bar stool. She'd meant the comment in jest but her delivery sounds a little bitchy even to her own ears.

The girl sends Monica a surly glance before muttering into her empty glass, "And I never took you for a slut."

"Excuse me?" Monica asks in shock. Instinctively her hands clench into fists and she has to actively remind herself that she's not the kind of woman to engage in a bar brawl. But honestly, who the hell does this girl think she is?

"Brian Naughton," Nicole answers calmly, either unaware or unperturbed by the physical dangers that accompany a pissed off Monica Geller. "You've been throwing yourself at him all night. It's disgusting," she explains. "Besides, you can give it a rest anyway. It's not going to work."

Brian's foot, which has been moving up and down her calf under the table all night seems like pretty solid evidence that it _is_ going to work, but Monica's curiosity begins to mingle with her anger so she decides to rejoin with the more appropriate, "What are you talking about?"

"Chandler is currently making out with my sister by the coat closet, so your little schemes to make him jealous aren't going to work." Nicole delivers her pronouncement with an air of cool indifference that Monica isn't buying for a second.

"Make him jealous? I have no idea what you're talking about," Monica answers honestly. If anything Monica's had the irrational worry all night that Chandler might _notice_ the attraction between herself and the handsome film director. She certainly hasn't been trying to rub it in his face.

"Yeah, sure you don't," Nicole tells her dismissively, clearly not as interested in Monica's possible disappointment as in her own. Then a minute later, proving Monica's suspicion, she adds bitterly, "You know I'd expect this from her, but I'm really disappointed in him."

As a matter of fact Monica is too, now that she stops to think about it. Hadn't he just told her he was planning on backing off? Didn't he witness Nick's strange but moving tribute to the positive influence of his girlfriend? Would he really be so selfish as to ignore so many other peoples' feelings just to satisfy some crazy obsession he's had with this girl?

"I guess he probably can't help himself," Nicole continues angrily, snapping Monica from her thoughts and back to the present. "People are always crazy about Kathy, boys, teachers, our parents. It's been this way our whole life."

"I'm sure that's not true," Monica replies kindly. Though she'd been ready to clobber her a minute ago, Monica finds her heart goes out to the other woman who's managed to shape-shift from hostile adult to injured child in an instant. Chandler has remarked upon this strange quality of Nicole's again and again, but Monica's never really noticed it for herself until now.

"Easy for you to say," Nicole spits out petulantly. "I bet you've never had to live in someone else's shadow your entire life."

Monica tries and fails to contain the laugh this accusation brings. Her response seems to offend Nicole however so she quickly clarifies, "If you only knew." Nicole is finally looking at her with interest, rather than the usual contempt and dislike she's accustomed to, so she hazards a hand upon the other woman's arm and tells her, "Hold on, we're going to need a lot more alcohol for this conversation."

Two thirds of a pitcher of sangria later, the two women are slumped upon the bar together incapacitated by their laughter as much as by the alcohol. Monica is currently responsible for their merriment as she recounts for Nicole the speech her mother had given at her brother's wedding. "She actually," here Monica pauses to laugh silently working hard to contain her hilarity and finish the anecdote, "she actually told all of the guests about his first solid poop. How perfectly shaped," Monica has to stop again at this to wipe the tears that have been falling down her cheeks, "the perfect color," finally she abandons finishing the story at all in favor of burying her head in the crook of her arm and losing herself in laughter for a full minute.

"Oh, that's bad," Nicole manages to reply through her own laughter. "That is so, so bad."

The two women sit quietly for a moment, regaining their composure and enjoying that pleasant buzz that accompanies a good laugh, when Nicole finally breaks the silence to ask, "Do you ever wonder what it would haven been like to be an only child? Like if they'd never been born, or died or something?"

Monica's good mood is obliterated in an instant as Nicole's innocent question evokes the sudden recollection of Brian Naughton's dead brother. She looks anxiously back at Nicole wondering how she might explain her odd reaction when she is spared the effort by the appearance of Chandler who comes rushing over to them at the bar.

"Hey, have you guys seen Joey?" He asks sounding almost frantic.

"I don't know," Monica asks haughtily, her irritation with him over having kissed Kathy momentarily distracting her from everything else. "Have you checked Kathy's mouth?"

"Damn!" Nicole exclaims in a fit of giggles, elongating the word sassily and trying unsuccessfully to snap her fingers.

"What?" Chandler asks in confusion, looking between the two women before him trying to make sense of Monica's reply, Nikki's reaction, and the unexpected camaraderie that seems to have sprung up between his two friends.

"I just think maybe you'd have a better idea of where Joey was if you'd kept your eyes on him instead of making out with other people's girlfriends," Monica explains, surprising herself a little with the anger that she feels towards him in this moment.

"Me?" Chandler asks incredulously gesturing at himself. "At least I did something. What about you?" He asks, swinging his finger around to point at her now. "You were so busy playing footsie with the next Martin Scorsese over there you didn't even lift a finger to help."

"What did you want me to do?" Monica asks, noting somewhere in the heat of her anger that they've begun to attract the attention of the other patrons of the bar and that Nicole in particular is watching them both intently.

"At least we know Joey's not up your skirt," Chandler rejoins angrily, ignoring her question, "or Brian's foot would have found him!"

"Damn!" Nicole exclaims again, though sounding more shocked than joyful in her second utterance of the expletive.

"Okay, okay. Cool it you two," she demands, moving to stand between the fighting friends and admonishing them both. She's morphed once more, Monica notes, from reticent little sister to strict headmistress in an instant. "Let's focus on finding Joey. How _did_ you lose him?" She asks Chandler.

"I brought him to the bathroom," he explains, relieved for Nikki's intervention, "and he fell asleep in the stalls so I came out here to get everything ready to go and I," he pauses here and looks guiltily down before finishing weakly, "I got held up. By the time I got back to the bathrooms, Joey was gone."

"Well he couldn't have gotten far, right?" Monica asks hopefully feeling a sense of worry for the first time over Joey's disappearance. "He had too much to drink, but he's an adult. He can handle himself."

"Normally, maybe," Chandler replies, "but he was drinking on his pain meds from the root canal. That's why he was acting so crazy. I'm pretty worried about him actually," Chandler admits. Though she's angry with him still, Monica can't help but step towards him at his admission and lay a comforting hand on his shoulder.

After a quick but thorough investigation of the bar the trio find that Joey is indeed nowhere to be found. Chandler, who knows him best, concludes Joey's most likely courses of action would be to either head home or back to the theater. Deciding to split the workload, Nicole heads back to the theater with strict orders to call immediately should she find Joey there, and Chandler and Monica find themselves riding in a cab back to the apartment.

There's something about riding in a darkened cab, eyes staring straight ahead at the no smoking sign adorning the plexiglass divider that make uncomfortable conversations so much easier Monica decides as they drive along through the night.

"I wasn't playing footsie," she announces quietly, a little apology in her voice.

"Monica, I dropped a napkin and had to look for it under the table. I saw you," Chandler replies, sounding more sad than angry now.

"No, I know," Monica admits. "I just mean _I_ wasn't playing footsie. I didn't initiate any of that. Brian was playing footsie with me. I was the footsiee, not the footser," she finishes sounding earnest despite the ridiculousness of her words.

"Oh. Okay," Chandler answers. "I'm sorry too for giving you a hard time about it," he tells her in a rush. "It's none of my business anyway. I mean he seems like a good guy and if he's interested in you, he's obviously smart. I just want you to be happy. You know that right?" He breaks the rule of forward facing taxicab conversations to turn and look at her now with a little grin on his face that she returns.

"I'm sorry too," she tells him holding his gaze a moment longer before looking ahead again to continue. "The whole reason we started this thing was so that you could get closer to Kathy. I had no right to attack you just because you managed to accomplish that. I just want you to be happy too."

"No, you _should_ be angry with me. She's Nick's girlfriend!" Chandler returns with passion. "But it's not what you think. It was like you and the footsie thing. I didn't initiate any of that kiss, Monica. You have to believe me. I wouldn't. Not after all that stuff Nick said tonight." He finishes breathily and every remaining shard of anger she'd been feeling towards him dissipates entirely to be replaced by affection.

"It was odd too," he continues now, seemingly speaking to himself more than for her benefit. "You'd think after all this time kissing her would be something amazing, like fireworks or an orchestra playing or something, but it wasn't. I didn't even enjoy it."

"Oh," Monica replies feeling a strange rush of relief at his words. Her respite is short lived however as a moment later a thought occurs to her. "Do think that that was maybe because you were thinking about someone else?" She asks hesitantly.

"What?" He asks sounding truly confused.

"Nicole?" Monica prods gently, knowing that this is a conversation she and he have to have eventually as much as she is dreading it.

"What?" He asks again in irritation. "No. No, it wasn't that. I already told you I don't feel that way about Nikki," he tells her sounding annoyed that he's had to refute her insinuations once more. "Although," he adds a moment later in a more conciliatory tone, "I think you may have been right about how she feels. Though I swear I didn't realize it till tonight," he adds quickly. "I know you warned me but it all seemed so improbable. You have to believe I'd never purposefully lead someone on. I really didn't know. It's not like it's normal to have pretty girls pining for me." He says all this with a nervous deprecation that has her already strong affection for him growing exponentially.

They ride together in silence for a bit before Monica blurts out what has really been bothering her the last few weeks, a feeling she hadn't even recognized until just this moment, "I just have this really terrible premonition that something awful is about to happen you know?" She asks fearfully.

Chandler does know. He feels it too, but rather than exacerbate her fears, he takes her hand in his across the leather center seat of the taxi and tells her "Nothing terrible is going to happen. I promise. Everything is going to be okay."

The feel of his hand in her own for the remainder of the cab ride is almost comforting enough to have her believing his words. But when they arrive at a Joey-less apartment, the overwhelming sense that something terrible is about to happen returns.

And as they are about to discover the very next morning, something is indeed wrong. Very, very, wrong.


	6. Saturday morning, June 27th

**Author's Note: Just a quick thank you to anyone still reading this mess of a story. I wanted to try to write something that involved significant plotting and original characters and I'm finding it equal parts frustrating and rewarding, so I appreciate anyone still putting up with me. To that end, I did rewrite the first chapter slightly, so if you're interested at all you can check that out too. Finally a friendly warning...**

 **Beware readers! Plot holes, mystery and murder await ye. Proceed with caution!**

 _Monica holds her arm up to the sky, admiring the patchwork of light and shadow that appears upon her skin. The kaleidoscope effect is created by the summer sun shining through the tall hedge behind her, and though the leaves fracture and separate its rays, she can still feel its heat warming her to her core._

 _A moment later a rustle of movement grabs her attention and she quickly turns to determine its source. As a cloud moves across the sun making the temperature drop noticeably, she wraps her arms tightly around herself for warmth and strains to make out the figure moving in the shadow of the hedge several yards ahead._

 _"_ _Joey?" Monica yells out, remembering suddenly with a sickening feeling that finding her missing friend should be her priority. "Is that you?"_

 _The mysterious person doesn't answer, just merely turns to face the hedge, stepping forward and disappearing suddenly amid the branches. She races ahead now, her thoughts a mixture of curiosity and anxiety, before coming to the site of the figure's disappearance. She now sees an entrance here and realizes the hedge that she's been standing before is in actuality the perimeter of a labyrinth. 'When I find him, I am going to kill Joey', she thinks irritably before stepping reluctantly across the threshold and onto a gravel path._

 _Looking up into the clear blue sky she imagines the sun must have emerged once more from the cover of clouds, however, standing in the narrow passage created by the high hedgerows on either side she feels little of its warmth. She's moving blindly now, quickening when a rustling ahead of her suggests she's on the right path and more slowly when the sounds come from behind and she despairs of being lost herself._

 _Monica has nearly resigned herself to defeat when she turns a blind corner and comes suddenly upon Nick Harrison standing in a small clearing. Though she stumbles loudly into the opening, he seems not to notice, preoccupied rather with something high up in the brambles of the hedge. Coming closer she sees it is a bird's nest, two perfectly oval eggs resting in its hollowed center._

 _"_ _Do you see?" He asks her abruptly, his words the first sign that he's noticed her presence at all._

 _Mutely she simply nods her head, a gesture he must miss, so engrossed is he with the small nest. However, he must assume her assent because he continues a moment later, "These two will hatch any day now."_

 _"_ _That's wonderful," she whispers, meaning it. She has the sudden memory of watching chicks hatch on a field trip to the farm as a child. Their wet matted feathers and skeletal faces had scared her a little at first until her teacher had directed her attention to the neighboring enclosure where the week-old chicks were housed. They'd seemed so precious: little fluffy harbingers of hope._

 _"_ _Is it?" Nick asks swinging round now to look her in the eye. The abrupt movement and disconcerting question leave her speechless and she steps back a few paces before rejoining, "Isn't it?"_

 _"_ _For one of them, maybe," he tells her derisively. "But there isn't enough for both. There's never enough for two," he finishes angrily looking away and peering up at the nest once more. "One will get the love, the acceptance, the opportunities," he continues stroking a finger along the egg nearest to him. "But for the other," he pauses and swings around once more brandishing the second egg at her. His face frightens her now, the same patchwork of light she'd so admired on her arm earlier, now shining on his face giving it an almost demonic quality. "For the other, it's a long, long way to fall."_

 _She backs away slowly at his wrathful words, then turns to run as he throws the small egg to the ground yelling angrily, "A mighty long way!" The sickening crack of the eggshell breaking on the hard gravel echoes behind her as she runs blindly through the maze, turning randomly this way and that at each possible fork in the road, her only goal to put as much distance between herself and the uncharacteristically enraged Nick._

 _Approaching a juncture ahead, she stumbles slightly causing her to take the impending turn so closely she brushes against the hedge scratching her arm on the thorns there. She hardy notices the deep angry scrapes, however, as she makes out a familiar and welcome site in path before her._

 _"_ _Chandler!" She calls out in relief but the solace she had found in finding her friend dissipates entirely at the sight of the distraught face he turns to her. Looking past him she can see he is kneeling before a man lying prone on the path. "We were better than brothers," he tells her through his tears._

 _Coming to crouch beside him she takes in the pale and lifeless face._

"Joey!" She yells, a panic running so deeply through her she is insensible to her surroundings for a moment.

The surface where she's been lying now jolts, lifting her with it into a sitting position. Though still feeling the adrenaline coursing through her system she begins to recognize her surroundings as her living room and her make-shift bed as Chandler. _We must have fallen asleep out here_ she thinks to herself, shifting off her friend and onto her own space on the couch.

"Are you okay?" He murmurs. A quick peek in his direction confirms her suspicion that he is still more asleep than awake.

"Mmm," she answers noncommittally. The blind panic of her dream is starting to dissipate in the cold morning light of her comfortable and familiar apartment, but the more real anxiety of their current situation is beginning to quickly take its place.

"Joey," Chandler says simply, sounding more awake now and concisely voicing the source of her worries as well. "Did Nikki call?" He asks, already leaning over her to check the answering machine for himself. "I'll be right back," he tells her not needing to explain that he's off to check his apartment to see if their friend has returned.

A short moment later the door swings open and Monica turns quickly hoping to see Chandler returned to tell her that Joey is safe and sound, sleeping in his own bed. Or even better, perhaps the man himself has arrived in search of breakfast like he does most mornings. A second later, however, her hopes are dashed as her brother, Ross, wanders into the apartment with Phoebe in his wake. Neither bother to acknowledge her, preoccupied as they are with some ongoing argument.

"No one can tell the future," Ross tells his friend condescendingly. "It's basic chaos theory. You know, the butterfly effect? Every single thing, every decision, has an infinite number of possible outcomes. There's no way your psychic could know who you'll run into on the subway next Friday, let alone that it will be some 'dark handsome man' that will bring excitement and opportunity." He tells her mockingly.

"Oh, oh!" Phoebe exclaims excitedly draping her jacket and purse over the back of the dining room chair and moving across the kitchen to fetch a coffee mug from the cabinet. "I don't know anything about any butterflies, but she did tell me an arrogant skeptic would try to dampen my enthusiasm," she tells him triumphantly.

"It's a scam, Phoebe," Ross patronizes. "Con artists preying on the non-scientific mind."

"Oh, well la-di-da, Mr. Scientist man," Phoebe retorts sarcastically, "I know I'm just a dumb little lay person, but wasn't it Einstein that said time was relative and our division of the past, present, and future was merely an illusion?"

"He may have," Ross answers uncertainly, clearly a little taken aback by his friend's unprecedented knowledge of Einstein's take on the fourth dimension.

Monica can tell her brother is about to escalate his unwinnable argument with their bohemian friend and not being even remotely in the mood to hear either of their opinions on the nature of the universe this morning decides to make her presence known. "Hey guys," she greets shifting to peer at them over the back of the sofa.

"Hey," they greet automatically before taking in Monica's disheveled countenance. "Whoa, what happened to you?" Phoebe asks bluntly.

"You look terrible," Ross adds unnecessarily.

"Have either of you talked to Joey this morning?" Monica asks hurriedly in lieu of explanation.

"No," Ross answers slowly trying to piece together what Joey has to do with his sister's rough appearance.

"Uh-uh," Phoebe confirms.

"Not over there," Chandler announces now, coming through the apartment door before seeing Ross and Phoebe have joined them.

"Have you guys seen Joe?" He asks immediately.

"No, we haven't," Ross reiterates. "Why? What's going on?"

As Chandler carefully recounts the events of the previous evening the four friends find themselves eventually seated around the dining table. Monica notices that Chandler purposefully seems to leave out his dalliance with Kathy from the retelling, though whether from guilt or embarrassment, she's unsure.

"You guys are worrying over nothing," Phoebe tells them when Chandler's completed his tale. "This is Joey we're talking about. I'm sure he just ended up going home with someone."

"Phoebe's right," Ross says in agreement with their friend's assessment. "I mean its Joey. He once fell asleep on the subway and woke up at Coney Island with three phone numbers written on his arm."

"Yeah," Monica agrees uncertainly. While their logic seems sound, Monica can't seem to shake the uncomfortable feeling that's been growing since Joey's disappearance. A quick glance at Chandler's doubtful face shows that he too won't be easy till he's seen Joey with his own eyes.

"So Monica," Phoebe begins teasingly, clearly having moved past any lingering concerns over Joey's whereabouts, "How was your date last night with that hot director guy?"

"What hot director guy?" Ross asks suspiciously, slipping seamlessly into big brother mode.

"His name is Brian. He's directing the filming of the show for television," Monica explains.

"He's really hot," Phoebe adds, clearly feeling that Monica has left out the most important piece of information of her latest beau.

"Have you even seen him?" Chandler asks sounding mildly annoyed by Phoebe's enthusiasm.

"Well no, but Monica usually has good taste in men."

"Ah, thanks Pheebs," Monica smiles, touched by the odd compliment.

Though her warm affection is significantly cooled a moment later as Phoebe qualifies her praise, "You know how she can be so superficial about some things."

"Ah, thanks Pheebs," Monica reiterates sarcastically.

"Well, he sounds dreamy," Ross chimes in now, only sounding mildly in jest. "I want to meet him."

"Ooh, ooh. Me too!" Phoebe agrees clapping excitedly.

"I don't know if that's such a good idea. I mean I don't even know what's going on with us. In fact, I didn't even say goodnight to him last night, what with Joey missing and everything," Monica deflects, realizing for the first time that she completely walked out on her date last night without a word.

"You know, maybe we should head to the theater," Chandler supplies now. "Cast and crew will be there for the weekend read through and it's possible Brian or Nick saw something last night that can help us find Joe."

Monica is reluctant to leave the apartment building lest Joey return in their absence and only agrees to the outing after awakening a very grumpy Rachel who promises to stand guard and call if their missing friend should return. As it happens they need not have woken poor Rachel, as a phone call halts their progress just as they're preparing to depart.

"Chandler, grab that will you?" Monica demands, preoccupied with scrounging in her purse to be certain she has her wallet and keys before setting out.

"Hello?" Chandler asks hopefully, but Monica can tell by his subsequent disappointed, "Oh, hey," that it isn't Joey on the line.

Monica waits impatiently as Chandler speaks with the caller, trying to pick up the identity of the person on the other line and the content of their discussion from Chandler's small interjections and facial expressions. It's an odd mix, but by the end of the phone call the look of utter horror on Chandler's face has her convinced whoever it is, the news isn't good.

"Who was that?" Phoebe asks as he hangs up the phone, just as Monica supplies her own, "What's happened?"

"That was Nikki," Chandler tells them, phone still dangling from his fingertips. "They just took Brian Naughton to the hospital," he pauses a moment as Monica takes in this information. A million questions swirl in her mind, but just as she's composed herself enough to ask one of them, Chandler hits them with another bombshell, "and Nick Harrison is dead."


	7. Saturday afternoon, June 27th

Nick Harrison is dead. Nick Harrison is _dead_.

The entire cab ride over to the theater, Monica repeats the words to herself again and again. She has the horrifying, totally inappropriate desire to laugh out loud, the whole thing seems so preposterous. How could he be? She'd seen him less than twelve hours ago, talked with him, even once accidentally brushed her arm against his warm hand when reaching for her drink. How could that same hand now lie cold and lifeless on a gurney in a morgue somewhere? It doesn't seem possible.

But it is. Nick Harrison is dead.

When they arrive, the theater, as expected, is in total chaos. The cast stands aimlessly around the lounge area, some with blank disbelieving expressions, much like the one Monica imagines she herself must be sporting. While other faces, like poor Kathy's, are crumpled in inconsolable sorrow. She sits on one of the couches, nestled into her sister's side, Nicole sister rocking her gently, smoothing her hair again and again and shushing her consolingly. Monica marvels momentarily at seeing the two, usually so adversarial, in such a companionable pose. Rather than seeming odd, however, it looks like the most natural thing in the world and Monica wonders anew what history must exist between the two siblings.

At the other end of the room, leaning against the same tables she and Chandler would normally be loading up with food any other afternoon, stand a legion of police officers, their homogenous blue uniforms making them look more like some multipart organism than a group of individuals. It may be her imagination, but Monica fancies they seem to glance suspiciously across the room at their actor counterparts from time to time. Though what they'd be suspicious of, Monica hasn't a clue.

"What do you think they're all doing here?" Chandler asks, staring at the officers and echoing her own thoughts.

"I don't know. You'd have thought there'd be more paramedics and less cops," she replies, wondering for the first time since this nightmare began exactly what must have happened last night to put Brian Naughton in the hospital and Nick Harrison in the morgue.

"Hey," Nicole greets jogging up to meet them. "Any sign of Joey?" She asks in a hushed whisper. Monica isn't sure why exactly, but she finds she is grateful the other woman seems to be keeping Joey's disappearance a secret from the rest of the cast.

"No," Chandler replies, "he never came home last night."

Monica can hear the anxiety in Chandler's terse reply and instinctively rests a comforting hand on his shoulder in reassurance. "He's okay," she tells him, as much for her own edification as for his.

"What happened?" Monica asks Nicole, looking to the other woman to throw some light on last night's tragedy as the trio makes their way back to where Kathy waits alone now on the couches.

"No one knows for sure," Nicole replies, sitting once more beside her sister and patting her knee soothingly, before adding, "Though there's a rumor going around that it was an overdose."

"That's ridiculous," Kathy exclaims suddenly, shocking them all with her anger.

"Okay, okay," Nicole placates. "It's only a rumor."

"It isn't true," Kathy insists urgently. "It isn't," she repeats looking pleadingly to Chandler and Monica. "Nick didn't do drugs. He didn't even drink!"

"Chandler, could you…?" Nicole trails off, wordlessly asking him to take her post with her distraught sister. Chandler looks terrified by the prospect but bravely nods his agreement, taking over comforting duties as Nikki ushers Monica away to speak privately outside of Kathy's range of hearing.

"This is my fault," Kathy admits miserably after a moment when the two are left alone, words slightly muffled as she buries her face in Chandler's chest, her warm tears seeping through the thin material of his shirt and wetting the skin beneath. "I did this."

"No…no," Chandler pacifies, tightening his hold around the nearly hysterical Kathy. "It wasn't your fault. It was no one's fault," he comforts automatically, realizing as he speaks that he has no idea whether his words are true or not. A healthy young man is dead and another is in the hospital. Clearly these kinds of things don't just happen.

"Isn't it? I didn't want him dead," she tells him ardently. "Of course I didn't. But I did want him gone," she admits sadly, raising her tear streaked face to his. "God forgive me," she adds crumpling against him once more.

"What are you talking about?" Chandler asks nervously, wondering if this latest confession is connected to their kiss from the night before.

"Don't worry," she amends quickly, "not because of you. Well not directly, anyhow. _You've_ got nothing to feel guilty about," she tells him, reiterating her own guilt by stressing his innocence. Then seemingly out of the blue she continues, "Do you remember the night we stayed up talking about The Velveteen Rabbit?"

Chandler _feels_ the memory more so than he remembers it. The smell of Kathy's shampoo, the sound of her laughter floating in the night air, the way the dim light from the street lamps shown through the apartment windows and fell across her skin, the taste of the chocolate milk they'd shared as they'd stayed up half the night speaking of their shared favorite childhood story. But he doesn't tell her any of this, instead simply answering, "Yeah, I remember."

"That night was special for me," she tells him, taking his hand in her own.

"For me too," he admits, not sure where this conversation is headed. He feels affected yet wary, an odd mix of emotions he's come to associate with Kathy these last few days.

"Remember how the Skin Horse told the rabbit that the boy's love would make him real?"

Her question about the old book is almost silly, given the circumstances. But she is looking at him so intently and asking so sincerely that he dare not laugh and merely nods and reminds her, "And then it does."

"Yes," she agrees nodding furiously like he's said something brilliant rather than stated the well-known ending to the story. "But don't you think that's an awful lot of pressure for the boy? The rabbit's whole existence coming down to just one person's love, that's a lot to ask," she's looking at him pleadingly, practically begging for his agreement. "It's almost cruel," she adds angrily when it looks as though Chandler may be deliberating on his answer.

"And that's how it was with you and Nick," he replies knowingly, finally understanding the crux of Kathy's guilty reaction.

She nods. "In the beginning it was wonderful," she recalls, face and voice becoming softer with her recollection. "He was a great guy, truly. And so funny. He kind of reminded me of you, like that. I think that's why I liked him right away," she tells him shyly. "But the closer we got, the more intense he seemed to get," her voice becomes harder now and he wonders whether or not she's noticed how her hands are tensing into fists in her lap. "He was always hinting he had something terrible to confess to me, and that how I'd respond was going to make or break him. At first I was curious. I _wanted_ to help. But after a while it was too much pressure. I felt trapped," she explains desperately. "I didn't want to be the one to decide if he got to be real or not. And then you showed up and I…" she trails off here, her voice now transforming once more into one of confusion and sadness.

"It's okay," he soothes tugging her close again and resuming the comforting trifecta of rocking, petting and shushing he'd observed from Nikki. He must be getting better at it, because after a few moments Kathy's crying seems to stop and she relaxes into Chandler's embrace.

"What was it he wanted confess?" Chandler asks curiously, as the full import of Kathy's revelation finally hits him.

"I don't know," she answers burying her head into this shirt once more. "He never got to tell me. And now he never will," she manages to finish before bursting into a fresh round of tears. Chandler helplessly rubs a consoling hand across her back looking out a few yards away where Monica and Nicole stand, heads close together in conference.

"Kathy may not want to believe it," Nicole whispers to Monica, careful to remain out of her sister's hearing, "but one of the stage managers overheard the paramedics who took Brian to the hospital this morning talking about giving him Naloxone."

"What's that?" Monica asks curious, unfamiliar with the drug.

"It's an antidote for opioid intoxication. I once worked on a film about the addicts over in Alphabet City. Unfortunately, we saw overdoses all the time. Naloxone reverses the effects right away, but I guess they didn't get to Nick in time. God, I can't believe he's dead," Nicole finishes, voicing the same shock and disbelief that Monica's been feeling all morning.

"Is Brian going to be alright?" Monica asks, inwardly berating herself for only now thinking to worry about the fate of the attractive director.

"Yeah, it's incredibly effective. I heard they only brought him in for monitoring, so he should be able to leave the hospital soon. I just wonder when it happened. I mean I was here practically all night waiting for Joey and I didn't even see them come in. I didn't see anybo…" Nicole trails off here, a strange look coming into her eyes.

"Nicole?" Monica asks, looking ahead to where the other woman is staring. Monica can't see anything of interest, just a stylish older woman, Monica recognizes as Gail Gerhardt, the play's director whom she'd seen out to lunch with Joey all those weeks ago exiting her office with one of the police officers. "Nicole?" She prods again.

"What?" She replies, bringing her attention back to Monica.

"You were saying? About being here all night?"

"Right," Nicole answers, sounding more flustered than Monica's heard the usually confident girl sound before. "No. It's nothing. I didn't see anybody. Look, there's Gail," Nicole announces, effectively changing the subject and sounding much more like her usual self again. "God, she looks like shit. I heard she was the one who found them. First Rebecca gets sick. Now this happens. I swear this production is cursed."

The two turn their attention now to Gail who has loudly cleared her throat demanding the attention of the room at large. Monica notes she's clearly a woman who has experience in commanding rooms and audiences. She seems rather formidable, and Monica isn't sure if she should admire or fear her.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, may I have your attention, please? As many of you have already heard, tragedy struck our little community last night," Gail's clear and resonant voice rings out across the room and Monica imagines the director must have at one time been on the stage herself. In fact as she continues her speech, offering her condolences to Nick's coworkers and colleagues, Monica has the singular impression of an actress playing a part. She is just beginning to give some hint as to what is to become of the production, a topic on which all the members of the room must be particularly interested despite their grief over the loss of their friend, when she is interrupted by a tall rather ugly man, wearing a very ill fitting suit. Where Gail Gerhardt had been well spoken and polished, and rather insincere in Monica's opinion, as he begins to speak, Monica realizes this gentleman is quite the opposite, rather bumbling and messy- yes, but quite full of integrity as well.

"Hello, all. My name is Inspector Markowski. I'm very sorry to have to do this to everyone, but we've just gotten word from our person at the hospital about Mr. Harrison that has thrown the current series of events into a very different light. I'm afraid we're going to need to ask everyone to stay here a bit longer than intended. Now, either Sergeants Rhodes and Sergeant Walker here," he gestures now to two officers who have come to stand behind him, "will speak with each of you to get a statement on your whereabouts from last night and as long as everyone cooperates you'll all be free to go in good time. We thank you for your patience in this matter."

He turns abruptly away, seemingly unconcerned by the angry murmurs his words have evoked from the cast and crew. Monica looks worriedly to Chandler, who she finds looking right back at her, the same concern plastered all across his face.

The three officers confer, before the larger and meaner looking of the two sergeants, Monica thinks it may be Rhodes, steps up to speak, a clipboard and a small brown cylinder that she can't quite make out in his hands.

"Everyone," the officer barks out loudly, "I'll be calling out names and when you hear yours you can come with me," he demands. "First, we'd like to speak with Joseph Tribbiani," he announces causing Monica's stomach to drop in anxiety. Waiting for a reply, Sergeant Rhodes delineates each of the passing seconds with a sharp rap to his clipboard with the little brown cylinder in his hands. It's only after the third thump of plastic hitting masonite that Monica realizes what the Sergeant is holding and her stomach drops impossibly lower. It's a prescription pill bottle.


	8. Sunday, June 28th

Monica hesitates in the doorway, not sure how her presence will be received. She watches as Brian chats with a nurse presumably taking his vitals, saying something to cause the young woman to laugh lightly. He looks all right, all things considered, Monica decides, handsome as ever, if a little pale. After another moment of inconspicuous spying, Monica drums her fingers against the doorframe, the small noise echoing through the hospital room finally catching Brian's attention.

"Monica," he greets, sounding pleased to see her. "Come in." He gestures for her to enter and sit beside his bed. "Thanks for coming," he tells her sincerely once she's settled into her seat.

"Of course," she replies, hesitating a moment before resting her hand on his forearm. "How are you feeling?"

"I feel alright…physically," he answers, revealing more with what he doesn't say than what he does.

"I'm so sorry about Nick," she tells him, running her hand down his arm to his hand where she links their fingers together. She worries the act may be too intimate given the newness of their relationship, but she can't bear to withhold comfort from someone so obviously suffering.

"I still can't believe it," he replies, the small squeeze he gives her hand all the reassurance she needs that her gesture was the right choice. "And to think I was the one to suggest we go back to the theater in the first place. I was the one to make the coffee." He trails off here, presumably too affected to continue.

"This isn't your fault," she tells him firmly. "How could you have known that someone had spiked the coffee grounds?"

"Someone?" He asks, incredulous.

"Joey didn't do this, Brian," she tells him earnestly. "He's innocent."

"You can't be serious, Monica," he tells her, brusquely retrieving his hand from hers and rubbing it roughly across his eyes. "The guy practically confessed," he continues with conviction. "You were there at the bar too, right? You saw him threaten us with your own eyes."

It's true that Joey had been wild that night. In their many years of friendship she'd never seen him so full of anger and hostility. But this was Joey! Joey, who'd cried during Bambi and had pet poultry just to keep them from the slaughterhouse. It was absurd to think that he could be capable of anything like this. Not being sure how to express all this to Brian, however, she just shakes her head, reiterating confidently, "He didn't do this."

At her continued denial, Brian renews his recitation of the evidence against her friend, his voice and countenance becoming more and more frustrated with every proof he lists against Joey's innocence. "It was his hydrocodone in the coffee we drank. He doesn't have an alibi for where he was that night. He was Nick's understudy. He had everything to gain and if I hadn't survived, nothing to lose. How can you defend this guy, Monica?" He finishes angrily.

"I admit it doesn't sound good," Monica acknowledges holding her ground despite Brian's anger. "But I know Joey. I _know_ him. And I know he didn't do this."

"Are you sure?" He presses now, leaning across the railing of his hospital bed to look her directly in the eyes. He holds the contact for a moment too long, causing her to squirm a little in her seat, before looking away and addressing the room at large. "How long has he been in this business? Going from audition to audition? Crappy role to crappy role? How many bad reviews has he had to stomach? How much rejection? I know he's your friend and I admire your loyalty, Monica. I do. But you have to admit it's possible he's not the guy you think he is," he pauses here waiting for a reply. When she doesn't provide one he adds meaningfully, "I mean do we really ever know anyone?"

Monica's no philosopher. She couldn't care less about the auditory impact of trees falling in forests or the lifespan of cats in boxes. But to her shame, she takes a moment to really think about Brian's question. _Does_ she really know Joey? _Could_ an otherwise gentle and kind man lose it in an inebriated moment of anger and commit such a calculated act of evil? She closes her eyes tightly trying to envision it. Joey, _their_ Joey, sneaking into Nick's green room in the dead of night. Crushing his pills with the heavy paperweight he finds there and sweeping the poisonous powder, far too much for a body to handle in a single dose, into the grounds waiting in the coffee pot.

"No," she states again with confidence. It's absolutely impossible. Even the imagined picture in her head comes off like an arc from Days of Our Lives. "Joey didn't do this," she asserts for a third time.

"He may not be like you and me," Brian tells her, the anger gone from his voice, replaced now with a resigned annoyance, "but he's human all the same."

"Like you and me? What do you mean?" Monica asks, not quite sure what Brian's getting at.

"Ambitious," he replies with almost a smile now. "A perfectionist, a winner. You're a winner, Monica Geller. I sensed it from the first time we met. Just like me. We won't be satisfied with mediocrity. We want the best. We _deserve_ the best," he stresses. "And we'll do just about anything to get it."

Monica's frightened by his words even as she acknowledges the truth of them. Hasn't her whole life been one big push towards excellence? Nothing clean enough, or organized enough, or good enough? She's reminded suddenly of her dream a few days ago. That euphoric joy, the eradication of every insecurity and doubt, the _wholeness_ , that only winning can provide. The singular pleasure of not just saying 'I did it', but of saying 'I did it- faster, stronger, better- than everyone else.' Is it possible that even someone like Joey may crave that rush? Need it even?

"For us it comes naturally, but even the _good guys_ " he sneers the words distastefully, "like your pals Chandler and Joey, even Nick," he adds cryptically, "can be pushed to the limit for something they really want."

"Of course, Joey's human," she replies, becoming angry now herself. "But there's a difference between wanting something, even going to great lengths to get it, and murder. That's a real line and Joey wouldn't cross it. Not for anything."

He has no reply for this, but rather looks at her curiously now as if trying to solve a particularly challenging puzzle. She gives him a small smile partly out of embarrassment at his open staring and partly in apology, hoping to end the animosity that seems to have sprung up between them.

This just aggrieves him further however and he looks away in dissatisfaction before asking indignantly, "Look can we just not talk about this right now? My best friend just died. I'm in the hospital for God's sake."

"You're right. I'm sorry," Monica apologizes. He _is_ right, of course. What does it matter what Brian believes? Joey's innocent. She knows it and Chandler knows it and they'll prove it to everyone in time, even Brian. No need to fight with him here in the hospital where he nearly died, hours after he's lost his closest friend. "I'm sorry," she repeats earnestly. Uncertainly she holds her hand out once more, not at all confident he'll want her comfort any longer. But he takes it up in his own a moment later without hesitation and sends her that same grin of his that never fails to send a rush of shivers up her spine.

…..

"And they've got these clubs in here, like an exercise club and an Italian club. It's nice. I'm thinking of joining."

"Those are gangs, Joe," Chandler says panicking slightly, "Prison gangs. Do not join one of those. Do you understand me?" He demands.

"Ah, but the Italian guys always get meatball subs on Fridays," Joey tells him sullenly.

"Joey," Chandler repeats warningly.

"Alright, fine," Joey agrees reluctantly.

"Now tell me about Friday night again," Chandler commands, hoping his friend will finally be able to answer the questions that have been plaguing his every moment since Joey turned up, confused and disoriented, in a drunk tank in Queens Saturday night.

"C'mon man. We've been over this a zillion times," Joey whines throwing his head back dramatically and moaning in annoyance.

"I know. I'm sorry," Chandler apologizes. "But I just need you to tell me one more time. There has to be something we're missing that could get you out of here." Though Joey has been doing remarkably well during his short imprisonment, Chandler can't stand the thought of his friend behind bars. Like an anxious parent waiting up for their teenaged child to come home past curfew, he paces their now too quiet, too empty apartment, worrying about Joey's well being. Is he being mistreated by the guards or the other inmates? What will happen to him once this novel almost vacation like attitude he's taken towards prison wears off? What if they can't exonerate him and he has to stay here forever, or worse?

"C'mon Joe, just one more time from the top. Give me as much detail as you can remember."

"Alright, alright," Joey agrees in annoyance before beginning his retelling, "I remember waking up in the bathroom at the bar and you were gone and I was really confused. So I left thinking I was going to go look for you and the others. But when I got back to the table, everyone had left but Nick and Brian. They didn't see me but I heard them talking about the Gail thing and it got me all mad again, so I decided…"

"Hold on," Chandler interrupts Joey's almost robotic rendition of the events of the night. "What exactly did you hear them say? This is important, Joe," he pleads loudly, tapping on the glass between them, when his friend drops his end of the phone from his ear to rolls his eyes dramatically at Chandler's demand for detail.

"Brian said something like, _You don't need to tell Kathy anything. The past's the past. Just leave well enough alone,_ " he continues, though Chandler doesn't miss the petulant tone he's adopted. "I remember that especially cause Ma used to tell that to me, _Leave well enough alone, Joey_ ," he sing songs, imitating his mother, "I never knew what the heck she was talking about. We didn't even have a well…"

"It's a turn of phrase, Joe," Chandler explains, quickly adding, "something people say," when he realizes his own choice of words have left his roommate befuddled as well.

"Anyhow, it pissed me off again because I knew that I coulda had that part if I'd slept with Gail instead of him." Joey pauses now seemingly embarrassed before continuing contritely, "So I decided to go to Gail's and see if I could get the part. I'm not proud of myself," he adds loudly, as if expecting Chandler to judge him for his momentary lapse of morals. "But I just wanted that role so badly, you know?"

"It's okay, buddy," Chandler comforts. "I know you wouldn't have done it if you weren't all whacked out on those pills, but just don't go mentioning how much you wanted that part anymore okay," Chandler adds quietly, looking around nervously as if the detectives on Joey's case were spying on their conversation. He looks down suspiciously at the black mouthpiece in his hands. They probably are recording our conversations he thinks worriedly.

"How'd you get to Gail's?" Chandler asks, unintentionally giving his best Columbo impression.

"I told you," Joey whines anew. "I took the subway, I think. And before you ask," he adds halting Chandler who indeed was about to interject, "I don't remember if anyone saw me or remembered me on the ride."

"And when you got to Gail's?"

"I rang the doorbell a ton of times and nobody answered, so I headed back to the subway. Must of anyhow, I don't really remember, but it's not like I could have flown to Queens."

"You're sure you didn't take a taxi?" Chandler asks already knowing Joey's answer.

"No," Joey answers in exasperation. " _You_ had my wallet. You know all this. All I had was a few bucks which I must of used for train fare. Actually, I remember now, I almost didn't have enough," Joey tells him excitedly, a new memory clearly surfacing in his mind.

"Yeah?" Chandler asks leaning forward towards the glass separating him from his best friend and feeling a tendril of excitement stirring inside his chest.

"Yeah, I remember I saw a quarter on the sidewalk. I wanted to get it cause I was counting my change and I wasn't sure if I had enough," Joey continues getting excited now too.

"Yeah," Chandler encourages.

"Yeah, but then when I went to pick it up, someone else grabbed it."

"Are you sure?" Chandler asks now, real optimism flooding through him. If someone saw Joey that night in SoHo by Gail's house and _not_ by the theater, they may have a real chance of creating a alibi for him.

"Oh I'm sure alright. _And_ I know who it was!"

….

"Well I managed to talk Joey out of joining a prison gang," Chandler announces, coming into the living room and flopping onto the couch beside her. "Well, I hope I did, anyhow. I was up against a meatball sub, so you never know."

"Okay," Monica acknowledges with a laugh that is quickly replaced with the familiar spike of anxiety she feels every time she imagines their poor trusting naïve friend behind bars. "Did you also manage to find out anything new, anything at all, about that night that might help us prove he's innocent?"

"Maybe," Chandler tells her, his voice containing the slightest hint of cautious optimism. "There's a possibility someone saw him leaving Gail's that night. He thinks he remembers fighting with someone over a quarter on the sidewalk."

"Really?" Monica asks, elated. This is fantastic. Finally they'll be able to establish an alibi. And then everyone: the police, Brian Naughton, will have to admit that Joey is innocent. "Who was it?"

"That's the tricky part," Chandler tells her sounding far less hopeful in Monica's opinion than this news should warrant.

"Well?" She asks, tapping her foot against his calf impatiently when he seems hesitant to answer.

"Santa Claus."

"What about him?" Monica asks now totally confused.

"That's who Joey fought with. He fought with Santa Claus." Monica's only response to this revelation is to moan loudly throwing her head back against the couch cushions in frustration.

"He says he saw a coin on the curb and went to pick it up when," he hesitates here, taking a large breath before soldering on, "when Santa Claus kicked him aside and stole the quarter."

"He's going to be in there forever, isn't he?" Monica asks sadly now, doubly pessimistic now that the small lead she'd thought they may have had has proven so ridiculous.

"No," Chandler promises earnestly. "We won't let that happen." When it appears his assurances aren't having much of an effect he continues placing a comforting hand on her shoulder, "And who knows, maybe there is something to this Santa Claus thing after all."

She just raises an eyebrow at this so he clarifies, "Like maybe it was just a really fat guy with a beard or something and Joey's drug-addled, or just plain old Joey-addled mind saw Santa." He looks at her expectantly now and though she can tell he's looking for some kind of encouragement from her, the best she can manage is a shrug. "Anyhow, it's something at least and I'm going down to SoHo tomorrow to see what I can find out," he announces defiantly, before adding, "You can spare me at rehearsals in the morning, right?"

"Yeah, its no problem." They sit in companionable silence for a moment, each trying for the hundredth time since Nick Harrison's death to come up with some way to help Joey. "You know, I think I'll try talking with Gail tomorrow too," Monica announces. "It just doesn't add up that she wouldn't have woken up when Joey rang the doorbell again and again. I don't care how many Ambien she said she'd taken."

"That's a good idea," Chandler agrees nodding enthusiastically. "There's something fishy about her anyhow. Her story is a little _too_ perfect. _She's_ a little too put-together, don't you think?"

Monica knows Chandler is speaking of Gail now, not herself. But his words bring her conversation with Brian from that morning back to her mind once more, leading her to ask abruptly, "Do you think I'm a perfectionist?"

He snickers a bit at this sending her a little grin and postulating aloud, "Well, let's think..." With this he reaches for her across the space between them and begins undoing the buttons of her light summer sweater, carefully moving the little plastic circles through their buttonholes. His whole attention is on his task and she thinks she must be coming down with something because the same chills she'd experienced in Brian Naughton's hospital room are back again but amplified a thousand fold.

He finally finishes whatever he's been up to and looks at her expectantly. "Well?" He asks gesturing to his handy work. Her mind has currently settled somewhere deep in her chest, nestled below her heart which is beating wildly against her ribcage, so it takes her a moment to regain her senses and notice that he's been busy unbuttoning and rebuttoning her sweater. It now lies asymmetrically across her chest, one button hole-less at the top and a button-less hole below.

He's teasing her, she realizes now, and it _is_ kind of cute so she puts all of her effort into waiting a full ten seconds before quickly and efficiently righting her sweater's alignment.

"Very funny," she tells him sarcastically, though her large grin shows too clearly she is in fact amused. "I'm serious," she continues a moment later, truly wanting his opinion of her. "Do you think I take things too seriously? Like being perfect, having things perfect. Is that too important to me?"

He considers teasing her again, watching her cheeks flush and her lips pout too enjoyable to resist, but noticing how upset she seems to be he decides to answer her with honesty.

"It is true that you like things just so," he begins. His words seem to discourage her, her whole body slumping against the couch sadly, so he reaches across the space between them once more, this time to cup her face and bring her sad eyes back on him before continuing. "It's true that you like to have things perfect, but that's just because you care so much," he clarifies. "And you're a doer," he adds when it looks as though she might object. "Someone who isn't going to sit around letting the grass grow under her feet when she can go out there and make a difference. You're the most passionate, caring, and devoted person I know and I wouldn't change anything about you for the world."

She marvels a little at how Brian and Chandler have basically told her the same truths about herself, but whereas Brian's depiction had left her feeling mercenary and ashamed, Chandler's has brought her comfort and pride.

"Our faults are our strengths, I guess." He adds, taking his hand from her face and moving it back to his lap where he looks at it pensively.

"What do you mean?" She asks curiously.

"Just that, you know, being a perfectionist, being passionate, it could make someone kind of calculating and bitchy like Gail, or it could make someone else absolutely wonderful," here he gestures to her, causing her heart to stammer once more.

"I should get going," he tells her, looking a little embarrassed by his praise. "Lots of sleuthing to do tomorrow," he adds waggling his eyebrows at her goofily.

She gives him a friendly wave goodbye, drawing her legs to her chest and resting her head upon her knees, taking a moment to consider his words.

He's nearly out the door to her apartment when she draws him back with another question that has been bouncing around in her mind since her visit with Brian that morning, "Chandler, do you think we can ever really know someone?"

He pauses, considering her question a moment, before answering with a little smile, "Yeah, I do."

As she watches him leave she decides that while she agrees, it's also true that people can surprise you and that's it's possible to find something new in someone that you never saw before.


	9. Monday, June 29th

"I just can't believe he'd do this!" Phoebe exclaims, kicking the soda can she's been nudging with her toe for the last ten minutes clean across the street in her frustration. Though Chandler is thankful for Phoebe's company on his mission to hunt down Joey's Santa Claus, he feels a little guilty for taking up his friend's morning with what is beginning to feel more and more like a fool's errand. They've been hanging out in front of Gail's brownstone on the Upper East Side now for the last three hours and no one even remotely fat or jolly has been by. In fact everyone in this neighborhood seems to be rather thin and grumpy if the reedy physiques of the many passersby and nasty looks they've been sending them are any indication.

A quick glance at Phoebe's cranky profile confirms that her attack on the aluminum can from a minute ago hasn't done much to improve her mood, so Chandler slings an arm around his friend's shoulders and comforts, "I know. None of us believe it. That's why we're here. Joey's innocent and we're going to prove it."

Surprisingly this attempt at consolation is met with hostility rather than the appreciation he anticipated as Phoebe shrugs out of his partial embrace to testily correct him instead, "Joey? Who said anything about Joey? I'm talking about Santa!" With this ridiculous declaration she goes back to angrily scrapping the toe of her boot against the asphalt.

"Right," Chandler placates, trying and failing to sound sincere. "Well maybe we can clear him too while we're at it." With this weak appeasement he goes back to his own worried thoughts and restless activity of unfolding and refolding his now expired transfer card again and again. He's just seriously considering packing it in and calling it a day when a flash of movement at Gail's front door catches his attention. Panicking he throws his head between his knees, frantic to hide his possibly familiar face from view, a dramatic move that not surprisingly seems to draw Gail's attention rather than avert it as she actually pauses her descent down her steps to stare in their direction.

"He had some bad fish," Phoebe offers apologetically, and Chandler has to admit he's impressed if not a little frightened by the ease with which the falsehood falls from Phoebe's lips. Gail merely rolls her eyes at this and continues her progress toward the sidewalk. This may be the Upper East Side, but Manhattan is Manhattan after all and someone being sick in the street in the middle of the day really isn't much to look at.

"You can get up now," Phoebe nudges him a moment later when Gail has moved down the street and out of view. "You're pathetic, you know that, right?" She asks him with contempt once he's fully righted himself.

"As a matter of fact, I do know that," he answers defiantly, before adding curiously, "buy why do you mention it?"

"That whole thing," she tells him, her face taking on an exaggerated expression of fear as she mimics him going nearly fetal at the appearance of the admittedly terrifying director.

"So?" He defends, "I didn't want her to see me. What should I have done?"

"I don't know," Phoebe admits reluctantly. "But you should be doing something. _We_ should be doing something. We've just been sitting here all morning! We're wasting valuable time," she tells him, nearly yelling now.

"I agree!" He shouts back matching her in volume and intensity, "But what?"

Phoebe huffs in frustration, clearly not knowing what exactly they ought to be doing any better than Chandler. She looks around the block praying for inspiration, when suddenly the universe provides it. Face transforming from irritated to excited, she turns to Chandler to announce leadingly, "Gail is out for the day."

"Well, yeah," Chandler concurs in confusion. "She's got rehearsals this afternoon. So?"

"So, she's _out_ ," Phoebe reiterates, stressing the preposition.

"Yes," Chandler agrees perplexed. "She's _out_. Flannels are _in_. Gotta say, I'm not really seeing your point here," Chandler rambles looking between Phoebe and Gail's brownstone in confusion until understanding of Phoebe's unspoken suggestion begins to take hold. "We can't," he announces mechanically once he's figure it out.

"Oh, yes we can," Phoebe argues.

"Phoebe," Chandler begins in exasperation, "That's breaking and entering. That's a felony!"

"It's a misdemeanor," she corrects.

"Really?" He asks, sidetracked for a moment. "What's the difference between those two again?"

"About twelve months time served, give or take for good behavior," Phoebe answers automatically, already rising to make her way towards Gail's home.

"Okay, I don't even want to know how you know that," Chandler tells her, yanking her roughly back to the curb. "Sit down! We aren't doing this, Phoebe."

"Yes we are," she tells him angrily. "If it were up to you, we'd never do anything. _You_ never do anything."

"What the heck is that supposed to mean?" He's angry _and_ curious now, Phoebe's critique of him beginning to seem less about his hesitance to break into Gail's house and more about some greater failing she sees in him.

"It means you're the most passive person I know," she accuses angrily, sounding like passivity is a crime up there with drowning kittens. "You just sit around letting things happen to you and then feeling sorry for yourself. _Oh, Kathy doesn't like me. Oh, I hate my job. Oh, my father's a woman._ " She recites in an unflattering impression of him.

"Hey, I had a weird childhood," he defends himself, not at all liking the painful truths he's recognizing in Phoebe's attack.

"Oh, so what?" She retorts, surprising him a little with her anger. "At least you _had_ a childhood. So your parents were weird. They were _there_ weren't they? They loved you, didn't they? That's more than I can say." She finishes, her voice equal parts envious and sad.

"God, Phoebe. I'm so sorry," he apologizes earnestly. She's right of course. So much of his misery is self-inflicted. What was his problem anyway? He didn't like his job? Why not quit and look for something better? His love life was complicated? Whose wasn't? His dad wasn't around enough growing up? Well he was around now wasn't he? Calling, reaching out, trying to connect. And Chandler couldn't even be bothered to pick up the phone. "You're right, Pheebs," he apologizes anew, a wave of self hatred swelling up inside of him, "I'm sorry. I'm the worst."

"Stop being sorry!" Phoebe moans sounding totally exasperated now. "That's exactly what I'm talking about. Quit with the self-pity! You aren't _the worst_. I once saw a guy trip an old lady in the park. _That_ guy was the worst. You're just a normal guy with baggage, like anyone else. Stop hiding behind it. Be grateful for what you have and go after the things you want."

He takes a moment to consider her words, which have somehow gone from a criticism to a pep talk. Could he be less pathetic? If he's being honest, probably not. But he could try. He could try, for Joey's sake. "Okay. Okay," he tells her, mentally pumping himself up for the challenge. "I can do that."

"Good," she praises. "So what do you want?" She asks like a rallying cry.

"I want to help out Joey," he barks back with determination.

"And how can we do that?" She asks in the same cheerleading style.

"By breaking into Gail's house!" He answers enthusiastically before wavering for a minute and adding, "Wait, why are we breaking into Gail's house again?"

"To look for clues!" She enthuses, popping up from her seat on the curb and dragging him up beside her. "Anything that might prove that Joey was here that night, and that Gail heard him," she clarifies.

"Okay!" Chandler agrees, more due to her persuasion than an actual sense that her plan is sound. "Let's do it!"

He nods once in determination before bounding up the steps of the brownstone and making to break down the door.

"Woah, woah," Phoebe exclaims, halting his actions. "What are you doing?"

"I'm breaking and entering," he replies like it should be obvious. "Well, breaking, anyhow," he clarifies gesturing towards the locked door.

"Hold it just a minute there, Pink Panther. You can't just go busting down doors." She gives him a look of deep disdain, presumably for his naiveté in the ways of criminal trespassing, before demanding, "Give me your credit card."

He does so readily, but this earns him even more scorn from Phoebe who admonishes, "See this is what I'm talking about. You can't just go giving people your credit card, Chandler! I could steal this and rob you blind."

"Um, you're my friend, Pheebs. I know you'd never do that," he tells her, equal parts amused and annoyed with her ridiculousness.

"Please, I steal from you guys all the time," she tells him, working the card into the small space between the door and the doorjamb." She jostles it slightly before it nestles into place, adding conversationally as she works, "Just yesterday I took a twenty out of Ross' wallet."

"Phoebe! You can't do that. It's stealing!" He admonishes, the irony of his censure as he tries to block the view of the two of them currently breaking into a woman's home, lost on him for the moment.

"Oh, I put it back," she pacifies, easing the credit card down between the lock and its groove. "I just like knowing I can still do it," she admits.

"Well don't do it to _me_ anymore. Got it?" He demands with more authority than he actually feels.

"Yes, sir!" She agrees enthusiastically. "See that's what I'm talking about," she tells him proudly before turning back to her task. "Just a bit more," she continues working on the lock before throwing the door open wide and announcing triumphantly, "And we're in!"

"…side the Huxtable's house," Chandler amends looking at the opulent living room in awe. "Seriously, who lives like this?"

Like Gail herself, the home is meticulously neat, yet stocked full of the tasteful decorations of a cultured member of society's upper crust. However, as fascinating as their explorations of the lavish home are, an hour later when their search has finally taken them to the master bedroom, Chandler has to admit they've found absolutely nothing to exonerate Joey. He's just making his way through the framed photographs that sit atop an antique dresser, when his gaze falls upon a small ornate gilded picture frame. The picture in it is striking, not just for the incredible beauty of its subject, a young woman with long chestnut locks who looks smiling back at the camera, but also in its singularity as the only photograph, both here on the dresser as well as elsewhere throughout the home, to picture a single individual rather than the cast of one of Gail's productions. He's just about to draw Phoebe's attention to it, when she lets out a yelp of excitement.

"What's up?" He asks, momentarily distracted from the girl's face.

"Chandler?" Phoebe begins kneeling beside Gail's bedside table, gaze intent upon something in the nightstand drawer. "Why is everyone so sure that the drugs found in the coffee were Joey's?"

"Well, it was the same prescription as he had and they found his empty pill bottle hidden in his green room," he replies, the familiar feeling of dread surfacing in his stomach as he explains the evidence. It really does sound quite damning when he says it out loud. "I still can't figure that out though," he adds revisiting one of the sticking points he's come across again and again as he's rehashed the night of the murder in his mind. "I know Joey had those pills at the bar. Which means someone must of purposefully taken them to set him up."

"Right," Phoebe agrees. "And whoever that was must have had some understanding of hydrocodone too, right?"

"Yeah, I guess so," Chandler agrees. "You know I never considered that before but you're absolutely right," he continues with more conviction. "Framing Joey in just that way couldn't have been that premeditated. The killer must have seen the hydrocodone and _then_ decided to frame Joey. Which means, they were probably a man too, since the pills were in the men's room," he adds, preening a bit at his detective work.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Phoebe counters. "I've peed in tons of men's rooms, especially at bars. The lines for the ladies room can be brutal."

"You have? You aren't allowed to do that. What if you, you know, saw something?" Chandler asks sounding scandalized.

"Please, I'm not there to peek at anyone's equipment. Though…" Phoebe trails off here and Chandler, worried she may be about to share some story of just such a peek, quickly jumps in to get them back on course.

"I guess it could be anyone, but I still think our killer is probably a guy."

"I've got my money on a woman," Phoebe argues. "And not just any woman, either," she tells him grinning in triumph. "Look what I just found." She holds up a pill bottle and though he can't read the label from his distance from where she's kneeling he has a pretty good idea of what it says. "Hydrocodone?" He asks excitedly.

"Mm-hmm," Phoebe hums happily. "And that's not all," she tells him, positively glowing now, "Says here that this was refilled yesterday."

….

"Come," the aristocratic voice rings out from behind the closed door. It has an odd similarity to Judy Geller's and Monica steadies herself by taking a deep breath before swinging the door wide and entering the large office.

"Yes?" Gail Gerhardt asks, eyes never leaving the pile of papers in front of her. When Monica hesitates to answer she finally looks up from her work to demand, "Who are you?" And then again before Monica can answer, Gail adds, " You're not an actress are you?"

"No ma'am," Monica replies, falling into the polite address despite herself.

"Pity. You've got the face for it," Gail tells her giving her an appraising once over. "I could use an actress," she adds going back to her work. "Seems I'm short actresses _and_ actors these days."

"Yes. I know. I was so sorry to hear about Nick Harrison," Monica tells her, taking a further step into the large office and then hesitating a moment before taking the initiative and sitting in the small chair sitting opposite the large mahogany desk.

"Were you?" Gail asks, and Monica's not certain if her insensitive reply is the result of a true indifference to the young actor's murder or Gail's continued preoccupation with her work.

After a moment, Gail finally appears to have finished with her papers and transferring them carefully into the drawer before her, turns her full attention to Monica.

"No. Not too sorry, I'd say," Gail tells her appraisingly, the hint of a smile at the corner of her lips. "You barely knew him, did you?"

"Not really, no." Monica admits. "But I am interested in finding his killer," she declares, deciding it's better to lay all her cards on the table when dealing with the formidable Gail Gerhardt.

She's not sure what she's expecting from Gail in response to her admission: shock, anger, indignation. What she _isn't_ expecting is a complete change of topic. "You're not really much of a Maggie though are you?" She asks rhetorically as if potential roles for Monica had been the topic of their conversation rather than a hunt for a killer. "More of a Lady Macbeth, I'd say."

"Perhaps," Monica concedes. "But like I was saying…"

She doesn't get to elaborate on what she'd been saying however, as Gail interrupts once again, seemingly unaware of Monica's replies, "I mean that as a compliment too. Shakespeare was a bit hard on her, but I always liked Lady M myself. Why shouldn't she have ambitions?"

"Well tell that to Banquo and the King," Monica jokes. Though she hadn't read the play since high school, she's pretty sure Shakespeare covered the fallout of Lady Macbeth's ambitions pretty thoroughly.

"Fair enough, fair enough," Gail laughs before adding conspiratorially, "You know men, they all _think_ they want a Maggie, but they tire of them soon enough. What they all really want, really _need_ , are Lady Macbeths, minus the murderous ambitions of course," she concedes.

"You know a lot about men?" Monica probes, content to allow Gail to continue rambling for now in the hopes of better understanding the woman.

"Comes with the territory," she explains, waving a manicured hand in the space before her to denote her position. "One of the perks."

"And was Nick Harrison 'one of the perks'?" It's a dangerous line of questioning, but again with the enigmatic director, blunt and inflammatory seem to be the way to go.

She's a little surprised when Gail readily admits her affair with the late actor. "For a time maybe," she concedes easily.

"You weren't upset perhaps that he didn't want that role any longer," Monica continues her interrogation leaning slightly towards the other woman. I could have been a detective, Monica thinks proudly as she gets more and more into her performance.

"I don't get attached," Gail tells her simply. And while it may be Monica's imagination, she thinks she may be finally flustering the formidable Gail just a bit as the other woman worries a perfectly manicured thumbnail with her teeth.

"Sometimes we can't choose who we love," Monica reminds her, sensing the smallest bit of hidden vulnerability in Gail's assertion.

"Aren't you sweet?" Gail trills delightedly. "Who ever told you that tosh? Maybe you're more Maggie than I thought," she adds and Monica's fairly certain this is not a complimentary comparison in Gail's book. "I learned a long time ago not to become too attached to anyone or anything," she tells her resolutely. The two women stare at one another for a long moment before Gail leans forward across her desk and nearly whispers, "Have you ever lost something you loved? It only takes one time, but once you do, believe me, you learn. You learn fast." Gail says all this with far less affectation than her earlier speech and Monica gets the distinct impression she's hearing the authentic Gail Gerhardt for the very first time.

"Who did you lose? What was his name?" Monica whispers back.

"You think I'm talking about a man?" Gail asks sounding greatly amused by the presumption.

"I…" Monica trails off, not sure how to respond. She had assumed a romantic loss, but clearly she'd been wrong.

"Monica," Gail begins, not unkindly. " What are you doing here?"

"I'm trying to help Joey," Monica tells her honestly. "He's innocent. I know he didn't do this."

"I'm inclined to agree with you, my dear," Gail tells her. "Joey is a sweet man and I am sorry for him, but I don't know what you imagine I can do for him."

"You can help us. See we know, 'we' is me and my friend Chandler," she clarifies. "Maybe you've seen him around here?" She pauses a moment to await Gail's answer but when one doesn't come, she continues, "He's medium height, handsome in a boyish kind of way..." She's rambling and it's obvious she's losing Gail's attention so she quickly adds, "It's not important. Anyhow, we're trying to prove Joey's innocent, and we were hoping that maybe you might be able remember something from last Friday. Like maybe you woke briefly and you didn't know why. Or you thought you were dreaming but it was real. Anything really, anything at all."

"No," Gail answers sharply, the warm conversational tone she'd adopted just a minute ago, now completely gone. "I was home. I was asleep. And I didn't hear any doorbell. Now I'm sorry about your friend, I really am, but I have no interest in helping. I am sorry for Joey, but there is nothing I can do to help him and I certainly have no interest in avenging Nick Harrison's murder."

"What do you mean?" Monica asks, startled by Gail's angry tone.

"Did it ever occur to you that maybe Nick deserved what he got?" Gail snaps back, sounding uncharacteristically out of control.

"No," Monica answers honestly. "What could Nick have done to deserve that?"

Rather than answer her, however, Gail takes a moment to steady herself before rising from her desk and moving to the door of her office, effectively signaling the end of their interview. She holds the door open and Monica reluctantly rises and makes her way out. As she reaches the threshold, however, Gail stills her exit with a hand to her arm. "A lifetime in the company of actors has taught me a thing or two, my dear," she tells her, sounding almost maternal. "Never underestimate the villainy of human nature."

 **Author's Note: When I realized SoHo and the village are practically on top of one another, I moved Gail's address to the upper east side in order to provide a better alibi for Joey. If nothing else, I'm learning a lot about NYC geography from this story!**


End file.
